Claiming Hearts And Spaces
by morvamp
Summary: After disappointing news, Elena is forced to find a roommate. Damon Salvatore isn't exactly her ideal tenant, but when desperate times call for desperate decisions, he becomes just that. Now she just needs to figure out if it was the smartest or most foolish decision she's ever made. AU. AH.
1. Chapter 1

**It's finally happened. I have had this and another story idea in my head ever since I finished **_**How Never Became Forever**_** and finally found the motivation to start writing it. My plan was to wait until I had a few more chapters written, but I got too excited. I tend to make things up as I go along anyway, so it's all good.**

**My goal is to someday turn **_**HNBF**_** into an original story and publish it and I figured that if I planned on doing that, I needed another original fic to follow. You know, so I can see if I can even finish something else. So I mean it when I say this, if at any point while reading this story you have constructive criticism, please feel free to express it. You all are the reason I keep writing and you have always been so incredibly supportive in the past. I respect your opinions and use them when writing future chapters. So keep that feedback coming.**

**Alright, enough babbling…**

_**I hope you like the first chapter!**_

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><p>"This is exemplary work, Elena."<p>

This is it. The moment I have been waiting years to have.

I'm sitting across from the president of _Michaelson House_ and although it's my first time in his office, I feel content. Since first stepping foot through the doors of the publishing company I've busted my ass, proving my worth in the hopes of hearing what I'm sure is about to come from Klaus Michaelson's mouth next.

"We're all extremely impressed with the pieces you've assisted on since first joining our company."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a wonderful editorial assistant. Let's get to the point here.

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to hear compliments - have actually come to expect them. But that's what happens when you live, eat and breathe work. Of course I have a life outside of this place, friends and people I socialize with over heaps of 8.5 x 11 sheets that I'm constantly massacring with red ink. But this is the dream job I spent four years at a respectable college preparing for and another year and a half kissing ass to achieve. It's taken priority over everything else.

I'm ready to become an editor. I've fucking earned it.

"It shouldn't come as a shock to hear you've been in our radar for quite some time."

No, it doesn't.

"And I'm happy to tell you that despite budget cuts…"

Here we go…

"We're going to be keeping you on part-time."

Wait. What? Part-time? As in a demotion from the full-time position I currently hold?

My fingers fumble with the hem of my slate pencil skirt as I keep my eyes from widening in shock. "Excuse me, sir?"

Klaus shifts uncomfortably in his leather chair and leans slightly forward. Far enough for me to see the wrinkles that web from the corners of his eyes. "Oh, Elena, I know this wasn't what you were expecting, but you must understand. The economy is not helping our company and sales are down. With the abundance of personal blogs and social media outlets, everyone thinks they're a literary genius. And since the uneducated masses tend to consider most of these randoms as that very thing, they're not dishing out the money to buy written works when they can read them and other variations of them online for free."

What he's saying makes sense. It's no secret that publishers aren't doing well. Newspapers are going out of business, authors are now self-publishing and more pieces are being served up on a silver platter to viewers for free. The internet has been this industries' ultimate downfall. But still, I've devoted my life to someday moving up the industrial ladder. Now I wasn't only stuck on the second step, but being shoved back down to the first. I might as well be a damn intern again.

Where's the justice in that?

I keep my voice level, never revealing exactly how much I'm internally freaking out. I'm the epitome of professional. "So what are we talking about here? How many hours a week will I actually be working?"

"20."

As in half of what I'd previously been paid for. After pulling 70 hour work weeks and only being paid for the standard 40, this is how I'm being rewarded.

"Elena, I really am sorry." His brown eyes reveal just how sincerely he means that and despite my growing urge to punch him in the jugular, I swallow down the reality that his hands are tied. "But if it makes you feel any better, we're letting go about a third of the office. You should be grateful you still have a job."

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><p>"Are you fucking kidding me? That's what that British douche nugget said to justify what he's doing to you?"<p>

My best friend of 7 years has a scowl on her perfectly balmed lips and is effectively verbalizing all of the rancid thoughts swirling through my head. We're at our go-to watering hole _The Lakehouse_. It also happens to be Caroline's place of employment. Thankfully, she's off tonight and since she gets half priced drinks, it seemed like the perfect place to drown my sorrows until they're significantly submerged under a sea of alcoholic haze.

I take a sip of my concoction and reply, "Yep."

"After a year of not paying you for the embarrassingly excessive amount of overtime you've pulled for his company?" Her voice holds the perfect degree of distain. I want to hug her.

"Yep."

Caroline scoffs before releasing a sigh and tosses a blonde ringlet of hair over her shoulder. "I repeat: What a douche."

I nod this time and agree, "Yep." Apparently it's the only word I'm capable of speaking.

Sensing my downward spiral into more self-pity, she shoots me a small smile. "Alright, well then the next round is on me."

"You don't have to, Care." And I mean it. I'm not one for handouts. It's why I take so much pride in working myself into the ground in order to achieve my goals. At least, I did.

"I want to," she insists, reaching across our high top table to give my hand a little tug. "You're one of the most genuine, committed people I know and you've been shit on. Life is unfair. So right now I'm going to do something small to make you feel a little bit better. It's what friends are supposed to do."

Her words flow through me, slowly easing me out of the disappointing hole I've tossed myself into. I may have been dealt the short end of the stick when it comes to my profession, but not my best friend.

"See, I'm already seeing a little smile teasing me," she says. "You're too beautiful to be so pouty."

The full smile she's been dragging out comes over my lips at her compliment because despite her good looks, she never fails to assure me of mine. I'm not lying when I admit the girl's a bombshell, complete with wavy blonde hair that kisses her shoulders, come-hither grey eyes, tanned skin, plump lips and a pinched tight waist. Those features combined with the perky attitude and a height of 5' 10" make her every guy's wet dream.

Thankfully we've never had to compete for guys. Now, I know I'm not terrible on the eyes either. With average curves, chocolate doe eyes, long mahogany locks and standing your average 5'8", I can hold my own in a crowd of women. I'm not saying this with obnoxious confidence; I'm just admitting I understand my assets.

But Caroline is the knockout who attracts the muscle while I'm more of the adorably studious girl-next-door type who spends more of her time with her nose in a book correcting grammatical errors instead of scouting for men.

"You sure know how to flatter a girl," I purr, batting my eyes at my bombshell.

"Oh please," she smiles, throwing her hand through the air. "I'm just boozing you up so I can get into your pants later."

I wink and blow her a kiss. "You keep that up and I can almost guarantee it."

When the waiter brings us another round of drinks, Caroline looks up and says, "Thanks, Ben. These go on my tab for the rest of the night."

Ben's eyes travel between the two of us appreciatively, lingering a few seconds longer on my bestie. Like I said - every guy's wet dream. "They could be on me for the rest of the night if you want to go back to my place afterwards." His voice reeks of his arousal.

Caroline rolls her eyes. "My answer is the same as it was last night and the night before. If I wanted crabs, I'd go down to the docks and pick them from the bins myself. And as for Elena, she's too good for you."

As Ben sags his shoulders in defeat, Caroline maneuvers our drinks from his tray and places one in front of me before he scurries off.

"You didn't have to be so mean to him," I say.

"Oh yes I did. The guy can't take a hint. Three nights in a row he's come onto me, Elena. THREE!" she exasperates. "But come on, you need to drink up. Tonight is about forgetting horrible British men and skeezy co-workers. "

She lifts her glass and I mimic her action, clinking them together. "Thanks for this, considering I'm about to undergo a pay cut, I'm going to need all of the handouts I can get. I don't even know how I'm going to afford my apartment anymore."

We both take sips of our mixed drinks before she suggests, "We could always move in together."

At her words, I nearly spit out my fruity beverage and lift my brows questioningly.

"You're right," Caroline giggles, setting her glass onto the table so she can lift both of her hands into the air. "Terrible idea. Your OCD cleaning tendencies would drive me up a fucking wall."

I nod. "And your 3am rendezvous with mysterious men would leave me sleep deprived."

"And your good work ethic would make me itchy."

"And your incessant need to walk around the apartment stark naked would have me cleaning the couch cushions on a daily basis. I can't afford that much upholstery cleaner anymore."

We both break out into a fit of laughter at the idea of sharing a space. While I absolutely adore my best friend, the combination of our polar opposite personality types would combust under such confined circumstances.

"We'd be terrible roommates," she laughs, taking another sip of her drink.

I'm laughing so hard it's difficult to breathe, but I still manage to gulp my beverage and agree, "The absolute worst."

"You're still my best friend, though," she declares, titling her head to the side and blasting me with devotion.

I lean across the table to tease, "And you're still the girl that clings to me because I'm the only one with any degree of common sense." It's a joke, but the absolute truth. My girl wouldn't know a good decision if it hit her in the head. It's why she chooses one night stands over healthy relationships, spends $1000 on a handbag instead of fresh groceries and remains in her bartending position instead of investing in an actual career. It's one of the things I want to correct about her, but never will. Because that free spirit attitude makes her, well, her. And I wouldn't change anything about the girl I love.

She smiles and shrugs. "You've got me there."

We break into more laughter, catching curious glances from the nearby tables of men, but we both ignore them. Tonight is about us, about how effortless a friendship can be and how laughter really is the best medicine to cure otherwise dire circumstances. There really is no better company than my best friend.

But all too soon, Caroline's mood shifts and she's down to business.

"So really, what are you going to do, Elena?"

"About what?" I question. My life is about to become a mess and there's more than one piece of it that's bound to change.

"About money. About your job. About your apartment. Take your pick."

I don't know the answer to the first, but I do have one for the following two. "The unthinkable," I sigh. "I'm going to get a roommate."

Caroline gasps. "Cue the dramatic music now."

"It won't be that bad," I reason, but honestly don't believe it. I've lived by myself since I was 18 years old, relishing in the freedom that comes with independence and the comfort of having a sanctuary all to myself. The thought of sharing my space with another human being almost has a shiver trembling up my spine, but I ignore it.

"You're only saying that because we're four drinks in," Caroline points out.

"Probably," I admit, shrugging at her truth. "But after today, I need to think positively about something."

"No, after today you need a few rounds of shots," she insists. "Followed by at least another four Pear Martinis."

It's exactly what she forces down my throat over the next two hours.

* * *

><p>"Text me when you get home," Caroline all but screams from the taxi cab as it drives away. She's dangling out of the back window; a perfect display of white-girl wasted.<p>

Then again, I don't have much room to talk.

My head feels light and I'm having a hard time balancing on my navy stilettos. I only have seven blocks to walk to get to my apartment and I'm not going to lie, the short walk seems more like a journey at this point. However, since money is going to be tight, I decide to undergo the trek in favor of the taxi. I just hope I can make it there without toppling over.

As I walk, I focus on my steps, keeping my head down and run scenarios through my mind about my potential new roommate. After downing two more drinks at the bar, Caroline and I had set up an account on roommates dot com. Perhaps I should have waited until I was a little more sober before filling out my requirements and contact information, but I'm not focusing on that. Instead, I'm swaying in the bliss of my request posting and the ease in which I'll find the perfect roommate. They're out there. I'm certain.

And you know what's not on my mind? Klaus. My job. Or any of that depressing bullshit.

_Thank you, Caroline._

My head is still focused on my feet, making sure they remain steady under the weight of my body when I feel a tug on my arm. The force has me twirling to my side and my knees wobbling, but somehow I manage to remain upright. Internally, I'm having a celebratory dance party over my success when I notice my handbag is no longer around my wrist. Its then that two things happen simultaneously: my dance party stops and my purse appears in the hands of a man. He turns quickly, but not fast enough for me to miss his features, even in the darkness of night. And yeah, he's a looker and under different circumstances my heart would be doing a little summersault in my chest, but not when that bastard just swiped my bag.

"Hey!" I shout in some desperately lame attempt to make him stop. Unsurprisingly, he keeps his steady pace when I decide to pick up mine. I turn around and sprint after him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shout again and this time he turns around. Holy shit are his eyes bright. Almost neon.

Panicked, he takes off down the sidewalk and considering he's in boots and I'm in 3 inch heels, he's faster than me. We're both shuffling down an otherwise deserted alley and when it becomes obvious I'll never catch him nor my beloved handbag, I remove one of my heels and chuck it at him.

It simply bounces off of his back, but otherwise has no effect. He doesn't even make a sound at the impact.

"Please! I need that bag," I scream when it becomes certain I'll never catch him. I'm in a single heel and near the brink of tears when I shout one last desperate plea. "My apartment keys are in there!"

They're the last thing I see flying through the air before my mugger disappears around a corner.

* * *

><p>The hangover I feel the next morning is legendary. Seriously, I think Derek Jeter's in there swinging a baseball bat against my cranium. Thankfully I was able to sleep in my own bed courtesy of my polite mugger, but the remaining items in my purse as well as my dignity are still gone. I think that hurts worse than the hangover. It's close, though.<p>

I spend the first few hours of my morning nursing my head like it's attached to a newborn baby. Soft pillows and support are key, as well as closed blinds. It's an appropriate setting to stew in the dark realities of yesterday. Not only did I get demoted, I also drank myself into a ridiculous stupor. And to top it off, I'd been robbed. It's officially earned the 'Worst Day Of My Life' sticker.

Part of me wants to cry and a larger part of me wants to wallow. So after calling to cancel all of my credit cards (thankfully I'm one of ten people on the planet who still uses a landline in their home) and order a new cell, the latter is what I do until about 3pm. Then I drag my sorry, still aching ass into the shower and wash away the events of the previous day.

When I emerge and get dressed, I already feel more positive about the state of my life. Sure, I'd been dealt a rough batch of luck and had a bad day, but today was a new one. In the grand scheme of things, I'd only lost a few bills in my wallet, a cheapish purse and cell, and credit cards were replaceable. I at least still had a job in our dwindling economy, a best friend that is hopefully alive and a great apartment that I'll once again be able to afford once I obtain a new roommate.

Oh shit. My cell phone. How the hell am I supposed to get a roommate without being able to answer potential people's calls?

I lift from my comfortable sofa and start pacing around my living room when it dawns on me that I have a few more days to myself. Sure, money is going to be an issue, but as my eyes take in the immaculately clean hardwood floors, perfectly placed pastel furniture and alphabetized pieces of literature running the shelves along my brick wall, I realize that maybe that's okay. I like my stuff where it is. I like it untouched by anyone other than me. And I absolutely like it clean. A roommate is going to obliterate all of that. Is it really that big of a deal if I delay that awful fate another week? Probably not.

Just as I've settled on the comfort of that fact, I hear a knock at my entry. Bracing myself for Caroline's fury over not texting her, I run to the door and throw it open.

It's not Caroline.

It's a bushy man in a skin tight _Hello Kitty_ t-shirt that's resting just above his belly button. I'd guess about 35 years of age.

"Are you Elena Gilbert?"

I nod, unable to form coherent words as my eyes remain focused on this mans exposed mid-section.

"I'm here about your roommate request."

"Oh," is what I finally say before I begrudgingly conduct a quick interview in my hallway. It's all I need before I decide this guy is 100% not my future resident and dismiss him with a polite, "Thank you for coming."

As I shut the door, I throw my still-sensitive head into my hands and groan. Apparently, in our drunken stupors, Caroline and I had thought it a smart idea to list my actual address on my post. Morons. I thought robbing was bad. Now I not only had the reality of obtaining a roomie back, but I also had to worry about strangers coming to my house and potentially hacking me into 100 tiny bits.

If only I had my cell phone to call Caroline and ream her out about letting me make stupid mistakes when I've consumed too much alcohol or ask her for much needed back up. Sadly, I don't, which leaves me alone to deal with the following potential tenants that show up at my door over the next few hours.

I interview a guy who refuses to turn off the music blaring from his cell phone while I ask him questions (which only infuriates me more considering I don't have one at the moment). Then there's another with gold teeth, a lady who doesn't say a lick of English and a girl who only speaks through the creepy mannequin she's carrying. My last interview has potential. She's normal, answers my questions using her mouth and reminds me so much of Caroline that I'm seconds away from welcoming her in. Then she asks if I'm alright with her conducting her business from her room. She's a prostitute.

When I say my last goodbye, I'm feeling hopeless. All of my positivity from before has faded leaving me questioning the sanity of New York's residents. Was it possible that Caroline and I were the only sane ones left? Or was I too picky? I'm honestly not sure. But I sure as hell wasn't going to live with someone I didn't even feel comfortable inviting into the living room.

One thing I knew for sure was that if the remaining people were anything like the first I'd interviewed, I was going to have to settle. Or fail to make rent and live on the street. Both seemed like horrendous options.

I head to the kitchen to begin making dinner and after some searching through my cabinets, I pull out a box of mac n cheese. Comfort food is the only thing that can save me from the wreckage that has become my life. But just as I begin filling my pot with water, the doorbell rings yet again.

Releasing a sigh and kicking my drunken self in the ass for the umpteenth time today, I set the pot onto the counter and make my way to the door. What it reveals is the last person I ever expected to show up at my doorstep.

"You lookin' for a roommate?" He's wearing a shit-eating grin on his impeccably plump lips and the dangerous combination of his dark features, perfect angles and sculpted cheekbones do nothing to sway me from the familiarity of his eyes.

They're not neon today. They're oceanic blue. Beautiful, crashing waves against a shore below the sunset kind of blue. And they're about to be gouged from their sockets.

My face twists into something sinister as I snarl, "You."

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><p><strong>I'm not sure how quickly I will be posting updates for this, but I promise to write as often as I can so you don't have to wait too unbearably long.<strong>

_**Please Read and Review. :)**_

_**Hey, I'm on Twitter and Tumblr: morvamp**_


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm so ridiculously happy y'all are still around after my long hiatus. Thank you so much for all of your follows, favorites and reviews. It really does mean the world to me. Not much to say about this chapter other than enjoy. Hope you like Damon. ;)**

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><p>The grin doesn't slide from his face as he replies coolly, "Well that's not the reaction I usually get from women."<p>

From that delivery, I can just about guarantee he's right. He's a confident mother fucker, but one who's swagger and good looks have no effect on me. All I feel is rage.

"Oh my god, you don't even recognize me, do you?"

The smile finally falls, making room for confusion. "No, should I?" His brows crease together on his forehead before recognition dawns. "Did we sleep together and I forget to call you? Look, it was just a one-time thing. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings."

Seriously? He thinks I'm a jealous ex-fling? Well sure, maybe in another lifetime I would have slept with this dude. He's wearing a fitted grey t-shirt that rolls over the six pack it's hardly concealing, his low hanging jeans sculpt him to a fucking T and his 5 o'clock shadow would feel phenomenal against my skin, but that's beside the point. He stole my materialistic shit, not my heart.

"This is fucking rich." Finding this humorless situation hysterical, I wrap my hands around my waist and laugh. There are actual tears in my eyes because yeah, there's humor here. The very guy who mugged me just last night is standing in my doorway. Fate has a funny sense of humor, but at least it's in my favor.

The guy's eyes widen as he watches my display. "Please tell me you're not Elena."

When I get my hysterics at bay, I straighten back up and lean my hand against the doorframe. "And please tell me you're not here to become my roommate."

"Fuck." He releases a sigh and rubs the arch of his jaw.

A confident grin stretches across my face. "Fuck is right." I'm enjoying this a bit too much. But it's been a long two days and I need a little entertainment - and a little satisfaction - at his expense.

My eyes skim their way down his jeans because yeah, I can't help it and a girl's allowed to look even when she isn't interested. It's when they land on the duffel bag beside his black boots.

"Wait. You actually thought that if you showed up at my apartment I'd let you waltz right into your room? Just like that?"

"You're the one who wrote 'Roommate Needed ASAP' and listed your address," he shoots back, defenses rising. "I figured ASAP meant right now and your address meant come the fuck on over."

A few locks of his jet black hair slide to cover a bit of his face. It's not exactly long, just slightly beyond needing a haircut. Somehow it works on him, though. My eyes narrow at that fact. "I bet you don't get rejected often, do you?"

He shrugs. "Not really."

Of course not.

"Well let me be the first."

"Are you kidding me? C'mon," he pauses a second, "Elena." The sound of my name coming from his mouth sounds like warm chocolate tastes. I hate that he knows my name. "I need a new place to live and from what I can see through this doorway, your place looks like its perfect."

He's stretching to see over my head and into my apartment when I lift onto my tippy toes to block him. His eyes meet mine. "Yeah, it is. But I'd prefer not to have my shit stolen once I let you through my door."

His eyes narrow and his tone is unmistakably lower when he asks, "Excuse me?"

I shoot him a haughty smile that I hope feels like a kick in the junk. "Is it dawning on you yet who I am?"

"Not exactly."

"Let me give you a quick hint. I used to carry a burnt orange Valextra handbag that I spent an entire week's paycheck on. I loved it dearly. Well, I did until last night." He doesn't need to know it's a cheap knockoff; he just needs to feel guilt. And embarrassment.

Which he does. It's slowly creeping over his face. "Well fuck."

I repeat, "Fuck is right."

He bites the inside of his cheek and I'm shocked that he doesn't immediately bolt down the hallway. Instead, he gives me a smirk. A fucking smirk. "I feel like you're going to slap me now."

My voice is level, my expression vacant. "It's certainly plausible."

He appears to bite back a laugh when he lowers to the ground to unzip his duffel. After a little shuffling through clothes, he pulls out my beloved purse and hands it to me.

"Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?"

I swipe it from his grimy fingers and toss it onto my side table. "Not even if you meant it."

The guy shoves his hands into his pocket and shrugs innocently. "Hey, at least I was nice enough to give you back your keys."

"How chivalrous of you." Sarcasm practically foams from my mouth.

We stare at each other. Actually, he's staring, I'm glaring. I wait for him to pick his bag off of the floor and walk away because clearly we're through here. But instead, he asks, "Are you going to invite me in now?"

At the audacity of his question, I lose it. "Did it ever occur to you that I needed my stuff? That I work hard for it? That I'm not some rich bitch who has things handed to her? I had a really shitty day yesterday and the last thing I needed was some hoodlum swooping in and making matters worse."

He leans his body in my direction. "Would it make you feel better if I said I _really_ _was_ sorry? And that there's a welt on my back the size of Mt. Everest?"

"Not really," I spat, then admit, "But yeah, it kind of helps. A little." It may not have been the smartest move on my part to go running after a stranger in a dark alleyway in the middle of the night, but at least my shoe had left a mark.

"Well good," he says before his features morph with charm. There's a twinkle in his impossibly blue eyes when he compliments, "You have a wicked throwing arm."

If he thinks that has any effect on me, he's sadly mistaken. I'm not some silly schoolgirl who swoons at the sight of an attractive male. I'm an educated, career-driven female with a solid head on my shoulders. So I strike him with a well-executed blow to the ego.

"I'm still not inviting you in and you're still not going to be my roommate."

His hands leave his pockets and float into the air. The charm is still lighting up his face as he practically purrs, "Why not?"

"Are you seriously asking me that question?" I ask, incredulous. "Because you steal things. Because you already stole from me. What idiot would let you live with them knowing that's the type of lifestyle you live?"

"One who has no other options," he refutes.

"Who says I don't have other options?"

"I'm just taking a guess here," he begins confidently, "but you've already had a line of people show up at your door and considering I haven't seen another person walking around behind you in there, I'm gonna say you've turned them all down."

Damn his deductive reasoning skills. The bastards got a point, but there's no way in hell I'm letting him know it. So I suggest, "Maybe they're inside sleeping."

"And maybe New York is full of psychopaths," he counters.

He's closer than I realized; a single step away and invading my personal space. At this proximity, I can see the different shaded rings that edge his irises. They remind me of planets and the particles that orbit them. They're beautiful from a distance, but up close they're just ice and rock – deceitful from afar and sharp at contact.

"Who says you aren't one of them?" I question, taking a step back and ignoring the way his scent invades my nostrils – rain and sweat and masculinity.

"I do." The words are spoken slowly, confidently.

"You're a reputable source."

At that, he finally breaks. "C'mon, anyone who puts their actual address on their advertisement is desperate for a roommate."

"Or maybe they were just too intoxicated to be posting ads online. It wouldn't be the only mistake I made last night," I mutter under my breath, thinking of my choice to walk home alone in New York City. Nothing about last night showcased prime examples of acting out common sense. Caroline's clearly rubbing off on me.

A smile tugs on the corner of his mouth. I officially hate that smile. It's then that I decide I hate him.

"And besides, if I hadn't I wouldn't be able to do this." My hand reaches around to grab my door and I maneuver out of its way. I'm already anticipating the satisfaction I'll feel when I slam it in his smug face, but he's too quick. His foot is in the doorway before I can even shut it halfway.

"Please, Elena," he pleads. All of the arrogance from before has vanished, leaving desperation swimming beneath his thick lashes. "We started off on the wrong track. I'm Damon." He extends his hand in my direction, but I simply stare at it. He sighs and pulls it back. "Yes. I stole your purse thing, but it was a mistake. I needed a little extra cash and it was the easiest way to get it, but I'm not a bad person. I just made a bad decision. If you'd let me explain and talk about this, I think you'll see that I'm actually a pretty decent guy."

"I don't believe you."

"And why should you?" he agrees. "I haven't exactly given you a reason to trust me."

My arms cross defiantly against my waist. "No, you haven't."

"Okay," he sighs. "Here's my first bit of good faith. I think you left a zero off of your rent price. You listed it as $100 a month and I'm guessing you meant $1,000."

Well that certainly explains the influx of people who arrived at my door today. The abundance of human common decency I possess wants to reply with a thank you because he's right, but I withhold.

His eyes are locked with mine - willing me to say something, give in just a tiny bit. When I don't budge, he finally rakes his hand through his hair and looks at my purse. "Look, I was recently fired for sleeping with my manager's girl. That's why I took it."

"Oh, so you sleep with married women too?" I laugh. "You're doing a great job proving yourself here."

"Girlfriend. Not married, and I didn't know who she was," he clarifies with a wag of his finger. "But that's beside the point. I was just hired at a new restaurant so I'll have cash coming in again in a few days. I just needed some money for groceries."

It dawns on me then that I haven't even looked in my purse to see what's missing. "And did you get that money from me?"

His lips stretch into a thin line, remorse flowing onto his face. The emotion catches me by surprise.

"I'll pay you back the $15 I took. Everything else is in there. I swear. I didn't even look through your stuff."

There's vulnerability creeping through his well-established exterior and I want to believe his sincerity. I do. But I also don't want to be taken for a fool.

"Look, Damon, you might be a good guy, but first impressions really are everything, despite what people say. And I just don't trust you." An 'I'm sorry' loads in the back of my throat, but I push it back down. I have nothing to apologize for.

"I get it. This looks bad. Really fucking bad," he admits. "But I don't do shit like this a lot. I've just been dealt a patch of bad luck and I did what I had to to make it through. Things aren't normally like this and I'm not usually that guy. But if you rent to me, I'll pay you on time, I won't make a mess and I'll be respectful. Hell, I'll walk your dog if you have one. Just give me a chance." His voice lowers to something soft and sweet. It's the perfect blend as he whispers, "Please." It's barely audible.

His eyes are pleading, shining an unnatural hue that does seriously dangerous things to my nerves. The urge to slam the door in his face is still there, but it's dwindling. Still, I'm not sure I'm ready to make this stupid of a decision.

I'm still contemplating my answer when a girl with a chihuahua exits the elevator and begins walking towards us. She's on her cell and speaking in an absurdly high-pitched voice. The closer she gets, the more teeth I see poking from her dogs snarling mouth.

"You Elena?" the girl asks, momentarily pulling the cell from her ear.

Glancing back at Damon, I notice his eyes are still fixed on mine, waiting for an answer. I know he's a dick and he's already proven that point, but at least he seems normal. And if there's one thing I understand, its bad luck. Considering I've just had a truckload of it thrown onto me, I can relate to his struggle.

Maybe I'm an idiot. Maybe I'm too concerned for the future state of my rugs after a dog has taken a few shits on them. Maybe I'm just worn thin from the events of the past 24 hours and can't stand the thought of interviewing another whack-job. Or maybe I'm gullible enough to actually believe this guy will prove me wrong and be a great roommate. Regardless of the reason, I finally sigh and open my door completely, inviting him in. "I don't have a dog and I sure as hell don't want one."

A mega-watt smile lights his face. It's gorgeous. Fuck me.

Damon picks up his duffel bag and claims, "The rooms taken," to the girl still headed in our direction before he steps through the threshold of my apartment.

I linger with my back against the door a second longer and when I finally shut it, I feel the separation from us and the outside world immediately. It's just me and my new roommate now. Just me and the bastard who likes to steal shit.

This is going to pan out wonderfully.

Almost as if he can read my thoughts, Damon twists around and asks, "You sure about this?"

Something that resembles a laugh flies from my mouth. "No, I'm not. But I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt."

"Wow," he says, nodding. There's that stupid smirk on his face again before he flips his brows in the air and teases, "Maybe I should take up a career in acting instead of serving. I clearly have you fooled."

"You haven't even set your bag down. I can still kick you back out."

He chuckles. "Don't do that. I might lose an eye to that beast."

Internally I laugh, but on the outside I'm cold as steel. I'm just not ready to let my guard down yet.

He chuckles again before rolling his eyes. "I was kidding. I'm grateful and appreciate this. But if you and I are gonna be roomies, I think you'll need to find a sense of humor."

He twists to take in my living room. I'm grateful to no longer be under the weight of his eyes. "I laughed at you when I saw your face, didn't I?"

"Yeah, like I said before… not usually the reaction I get when I meet women."

He's not looking at me, so he misses the eye roll. "Yeah, I'm sure."

My purse buzzes on the table so I unzip it and pull out my cell.

_17 text messages and 4 missed calls from Carebear._

With this stranger in my living room, I don't have the time to call her back right now. I text her with: _I'm alive. Sorry. I'll explain everything later._

I hit the send button and throw it back into my purse, making sure to quickly check and see if everything is still there. It is. Damon was telling the truth. Speaking of Damon, I glance back up at him. He's stopped looking around my tiny space and is staring right at me.

"What?" I ask, feeling like a kid caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

"You gonna show me around this place or what?"

Oh right, formalities and all of that.

"Yeah, sure." I nod and set my phone next to my purse. It's buzzing again, but I ignore Caroline's text. I'll handle her later.

Throwing my hands out Vana White style, I motion around the room and say, "This is the living room."

Damon nods. "Got that."

"TV remote is in the end table drawer. I don't have any of the premium channels, but the basics are all there. You'll be able to watch your sporting events and all of that."

"You've got me all figured out, don't you?" He threads his fingers through his hair. As he does, his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of bare skin above his low-hung jeans and the defined V of his torso. My eyes fixate on the trail of onyx hair that descends in the center, disappearing under the material. I swallow and divert my attention, pretending it never happened.

This attractive guy roommate thing is going to take some getting used to.

As I take the four steps towards the kitchen, I answer, "I'm working on it."

He chuckles again before I dive into professional mode. I demonstrate how all of the appliances work, show him the cupboard that houses the trash can, explain the importance of routine dishwasher cycles and countertop wipe downs, and conclude with the quickest route to the dumpster.

"I'm sensing a chore chart in my future," he teases.

It's a jab but I ignore it. Cleanliness is nothing to joke about.

"I don't like messes."

"I see that."

Shaking my head, I walk over to the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. My voice muffles against its four walls as I declare, "And if you have a problem with that, you know where the door is."

"I'm adaptable. Nice fridge." His breath dances against my ear and I flinch. Resisting the urge to detail the importance of personal space, I rise up and say, "Good." I want to appear strong and collected. This is my house and I'm in charge. Letting him in on the fact that he rattles me and that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing would only weaken my offense.

Thankfully, he's stepped back, which allows me to take a swig of my water, set it on the counter and maneuver around him into the hallway. I point to the door on the left that's cracked slightly open and explain, "That one's mine." He goes to peek inside, but I grab onto his arm and turn him to the right. "And this one's yours."

We both enter and as his eyes take in my abstract floral comforter shaded coral, my perfectly organized desk and turquoise framed photographs, he raises his brows.

I shrug and explain, "I didn't expect a roommate so quickly. I'll clean it out for you later today."

But he brushes past me, drops his duffel onto the floor and throws himself on the bed, making himself at home. "No worries. Pink is actually my favorite color."

I ignore the fact that his dirty boots are resting on my comforter and correct, "It's coral."

"Right." He laughs. I'm beginning to think that to him, I'm just one big walking joke. It irritates the living fuck out of me.

I linger in the doorway as he lifts from the queen bed and studies the pictures throughout the room. When he picks up one of Caroline and me to get a better look, I clear my throat and suggest, "Moving on."

But Damon holds it in my direction and asks, "Who's this?"

Figures. The guy has only been in my life for ten minutes and already he wants to know when he can get into my best friends pants.

"That's Caroline."

"No," he replies, shaking his head and pushing the frame in my direction. I lean in to see his finger is pointed at me. My hands are wrapped around Caroline's waist at the park and my head is thrown back in laughter. The shot was taken four years ago after I graduated from Brown University, back when I was filled with youthful hope and the potential for greatness.

I roll my eyes and mutter, "That's me, idiot."

He simply smiles in return, a genuine smile that cuts right through my current barriers. Damon's eyes portray he believes he's achieved just that. "Can't wait to meet her."

I have no response to that because, well, because it's the first nice thing he's said to me that's felt genuine.

When he sets the picture back onto the desk, we walk out into the hallway. It's when reality rears its ugly head and I realize what a monumentally fucked up decision I've made.

There in its pristine glory is the single bathroom in my apartment. And now I have to share it with a guy. Not only does this mean messes, pubic hair, and lifted toilet seats with piss dribbled around the rim. But it also means potential situations. I make a mental note to get a lock for the door and have Damon replace the nob immediately.

He's a guy. That sort of skill is encoded in their DNA, right?

As if he can hear the hurricane of thoughts in my mind, he assures, "Relax. We'll make it work."

He's turned to face me in the tiny doorframe and I'm suddenly aware of how close we are. Inches separate our bodies and he's towering a good six inches above me. I realize then how much I approve of dick Damon over accommodating Damon. It's easier to deal with him that way.

My eyes shift to the floor. "That concludes the tour."

He leans in and says, "You were a marvelous guide."

Why the hell is he so close to me? I resist the urge to lay down personal space rules again and bring up the one topic I know will deflate this situation.

"Let's talk about rent."

He grins and walks back to his room.

Ding ding ding. And the winner is: Elena Gilbert.

I follow, making sure he understands the importance of what I'm about to say. "I pay the landlord the first Friday of the month, so I'll expect your part a week before. I'm trusting you with this. Please don't leave me hanging."

"Wouldn't dream of it. You'll have your cash." He rummages through his duffel bag and pulls out a few shirts, two pairs of jeans, some toiletries and a bag of Cheetos. There's a few more things in there that I want to see, considering there might be more purses and I assume everything he owns is in that bag. It would give me a nice glimpse of who he really is, but I don't want to linger. I like my space; he probably does too.

So I turn to leave him to it, but just as I do, he says, "Thanks for giving me a shot."

It catches me off guard. I don't turn back to him because honestly, I can't endure the chance that he has a sincere look in his eyes to accentuate the gratitude he's just offered. Already I can feel his words sinking through my skin and latching on, adjusting my initial assessment of him. And frankly, I don't trust him enough yet to go soft.

Instead, I reply with a, "You're welcome," and hope that gratitude means he'll eventually transition into a decent roommate.

I make my way back into the living room and pick up my phone, dialing Caroline.

After only one ring, she picks up.

"Dammit, Elena, I thought you were dead."

I roll my eyes at her dramatics and point out, "I have a landline, you know. You could have tried calling that."

"I thought that thing was just a decoration."

"Of course you did," I deadpan.

"If I didn't feel like I'd been hit by a Mack truck, my ass would be over there right now checking on you."

My body sags with familiarity and I groan. "I understand your pain."

"Oh no. Still thinking about your British douche and the cruelty of life?"

Shaking my head, I insist, "I let it slide last night because I was in mourning, but he's 'English' not 'British'."

"There's the Elena I know and love. It's nice to have you back," she chimes. "But c'mon and give me the good stuff. What the hell happened to you last night?"

I break down the events of the previous evening as well as my queue of potential tenants, making sure to keep my voice down in case Damon is eavesdropping. When I get to the actual part about Damon becoming my roommate, Caroline's gasp blasts me through the speaker.

"What did you do with my level-headed best friend?" she nearly screams.

"She's still here."

"Are you sure? Because the Elena I know wouldn't have been that careless. Seriously, what are you thinking?" She has a point. Typical me makes smart, reasonable decisions. Typical me wouldn't have posted a personal address online for the whole world to see and typical me wouldn't have rented a room to a degenerate. Then again, typical me had a full-time job that paid her well so she didn't need a roommate and typical me didn't get wasted feeling sorry for herself. Typical me is gone, apparently.

"I don't know," I admit. "You should have seen these other people, Care. He was the best option."

"But he mugged you. What's to say he won't rob you blind in the middle of the night?"

Again, she has a point. But I have a gut feeling.

"Faith."

"Stupidity," she corrects.

"Probably."

She sighs, clearly defeated. "Just be careful."

"I will."

"And text me in the morning so I know you're alive. Make sure you do it this time too."

"I will," I repeat.

When I hang up, Damon is standing at the edge of the hallway. How much he's heard is unclear.

"Someone trying to convince you of your idiotic decision?"

Well, I guess that pretty much answers my question. I shoot him a fake smile. "How'd you guess?"

"I'm psychic."

"Or perceptive."

He quirks a brow. "Both are just a glimpse into my personal talents."

Images of hands, body parts and linen sheets twist through my mind and I instantly shove them aside, unwilling to accept the fact that they just manifested. And not only about the guy who is my new roommate, but one whom also lacks most of his moral fiber.

"It's all good," he reasons. "I'll prove to whoever was on the other end of that line that they were wrong. It only takes a matter of time before everyone likes me."

"Your old boss might beg to differ."

Damon swipes his hand through the air dismissively. "He doesn't count."

He has that confident smirk on his face again and it's when I remember his duffel bag sitting in my entryway when he arrived - like he'd already assumed he'd land my spare bedroom before the fact. "You honestly believe that don't you?"

"It's already happening with you." He shrugs as though it was certain from the start, which in his mind, it was. "You may not want to admit it, but I'm already winning you over, Elena."

He's correct and I hate him for that degree of perception he so masterfully holds. Desperate for a topic shift so I don't have to prove him right, I offer, "I was about to make some mac n cheese before you showed up. Want some?" I'm aware he has a perfectly decent bag of Cheetos waiting in his room, but actual food is a good alternative. And yes, although some might protest, I stand firm in my stance that mac n cheese counts as actual food.

"Sure," he replies, leaning his slender frame against the wall. He's thinking about something or maybe processing it before it ultimately drops. "Mind if I take a shower? Or do you need help boiling the water?"

"I think I've got it covered. Go ahead. Just don't use my bar of soap."

He pushes off the wall and heads for the bathroom, claiming, "I'll make sure to wash my ass with it," as he disappears.

I groan, begging that was just a joke. It's hard to tell with him.

* * *

><p>We spend the rest of the evening coexisting without really interacting. This is my first time sharing my place and I'm not really sure what to do. Do I talk to him and attempt to make him feel at home? Do I leave him alone so it doesn't seem like I'm pestering him? I have no freaking idea. So the latter wins out. Simply because it's easier.<p>

After dinner, Damon spends most of his time in his room and after I delete my roommate request, I spend it lounging on the couch in front of the television. It's where I plan on staying the rest of the night. Sure, he might have taken a few steps in the right direction, but that didn't mean I trusted him just yet. If he planned on swiping a single book from my shelves, I was going to catch him in the act.

By 11pm, I'm exhausted. My eyes are drooping and sleep is begging for me to accept defeat and succumb to its temptation. But I struggle to keep them open. If I have to stay up all night to watch Damon, I will.

It's then that he comes out and sits down on the opposite end of the sofa. He doesn't speak a word as he maneuvers my feet and places them onto his lap, as if this type of interaction is natural for us. It's not. That's evident in the way the skin of my calves prickles under the weight of his arms. I'm covered in a blanket, so there's no skin contact, but there's heat. It's ebbing and flowing with each focused breath I take.

I want to question his action, say something, anything, but I can't. Because I know nothing about the man sitting next to me and it's awkward. I don't know why he wants to live in this apartment with a girl who has OCD cleaning tendencies and I don't know how he already feels comfortable enough to throw us into the position we're in. Hell, I don't even know his last name. All of the answers inevitably lurk in my future and I could pull them out with a little prying, help me understand him better and maybe assure myself that it's okay to sleep without him bolting in the middle of the night with half of my shit, but I hold off. I'm tired and frankly don't feel like wasting the energy.

So for now, I settle with comfortable small talk. And for some reason, I don't move my feet.

"I can change the channel if you want." The intro to Sex and the City concludes on my TV screen, segueing into the first scene and although I don't necessarily want to switch channels, I'm attempting to be polite.

He shrugs and responds, "It's your place."

"Technically it's _our_ place now," I correct.

He finally turns his eyes to me, the ghost of a smile playing over his lips. "See. You're already coming around to me."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Alright then," he says, swiveling his head back to the television. "The TV is yours tonight."

Satisfied with that, I focus my attention back on the television and situate my head better against the pillow. My legs remain where they are as we watch an episode of my favorite show and I can't help but consider how domestic we must look to an outsider. You'd never assume we'd only met this morning and under the circumstances we had.

As Carrie Bradshaw slips on a pair of painfully stunning Manolo Blahniks, Damon says, "We'll start sharing tomorrow," leaving me to decipher if that statement applies strictly to my stuff.

We say nothing to each other for the rest of the night.

My feet stay nestled in his lap.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Please Read and Review. :)<strong>_

_**I'm on Twitter and Tumblr: morvamp**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Not much to say about this chapter other than Elena and Damon are still trying to figure each other out and that's going to take time. Getting to know a total stranger is awkward and I hope I've relayed a little bit of that in here. All of your reviews have been so wonderful and I do appreciate each and every one. Thank you so much. You guys keep me smiling and I hope that I return a little bit of that to y'all as you read.**

_**Hope you like the chapter!**_

* * *

><p>I wake the next morning to a bang and something that sounds oddly like a knife on my cutting board. I'm just guessing, considering I've never used the thing.<p>

A sliver of sunlight is creeping through the curtains of my bay window, glaring right on my eyelids and it makes me groan. It's too damn bright. When another loud bang rings from the direction of my kitchen, I push the hair from my face and wipe the sleep from my eyes. Opening them, it takes a second for my vision to adjust and Damon's form to appear.

Fuck. How did I sleep in later than him? And when the hell did I let myself actually fall asleep?

"Morning sunshine."

"When did I drift off?" I grumble; it sounds like I've swallowed a gallon of mud.

"About the time that redhead on the screen tried on a set of fake nipples. You weren't fazed, but my entire world was blown. Do you women really wear those things?"

His voice is way too perky and I need my boost of caffeine before I can even consider having an intelligible conversation with another human being.

Oh right, I live with someone. Someone who steals shit.

Ignoring his question, I sit up and shift my eyes around my apartment. Everything appears to be in its place, but I can't be certain. Just as I stand up to further investigate the smaller decorations of my apartment, he assures, "I didn't take any of your precious books or knick-knacks. Would I still be here if I did?"

He has a point. Then again, he could have hidden them in his room. I hastily make my way towards the hallway, claiming, "I have to pee," as I do.

But he catches onto my intentions immediately.

"There's nothing in my bag either," he says gleefully.

I whip around, seething at how he so easily saw through my lie, and clip, "What if I don't trust you?"

He simply shrugs and points a knife in the direction of the hallway. "Feel free to check, but I think you're going to be disappointed."

Despite the small amount of good faith he earned yesterday, I whip around and enter his room. The first thing I notice is that the bed hasn't been slept in. Did he sleep on the couch with me last night? And if so, why the hell did he? Bypassing that fact for my more important mission, I crouch down to his bag and ruffle through its contents. There's a bag of Funyuns and another bag of Doritos, but besides that, it's empty.

I'm both relieved and embarrassed by that fact.

I thread my fingers through my hair and sigh at my antics before dragging my shameful ass back to the common space.

Damon's waiting for me with his smile already in position. "Told you. Guess you don't have a reason to kick me out just yet."

I should apologize. I mean, I did just accuse the guy of swiping more of my stuff, but he had it coming. His actions will take a while to fade and with it will come my trust. He just hasn't earned it yet. So foregoing the apology, I take a seat in one of the three stools around my island and motion my pointer and middle fingers between my eyes and him. "I'm still watching you."

"You're my own personal hawk, I know." His eyes crinkle in amusement before he lowers them to the cutting board and resumes chopping. What he's chopping exactly, I have no clue. Wait. Are those my blueberry pop tarts? And frosted flake cereal?

"Nice hair by the way."

At his comment, my eyes lift from the mix and narrow. Not only has he woke me up, but he's probably slept in the same space as me, stolen my food to make god knows what, and now he has the audacity to comment about my morning appearance. If I wasn't still half asleep, I'd go full Lorena Bobbitt on his ass, grab that knife from his hand and use it to chop his dick off.

Since that's not exactly an option, I sneer, "Screw you."

It's not nearly as satisfying, but it works in a pinch.

"Man, you're feisty in the morning," he remarks with a quick roll of the eyes. Setting his - _my_ - knife onto the countertop, he pushes a sunflower colored mug in my direction. "Drink this."

I eye it warily, wondering if it's poison. It makes sense. Then he wouldn't need to worry about sneaking away in the middle of the night. He'd have the luxury of stepping around my dead body in broad daylight as he carries my personal belongings right through my front door.

"It's just coffee," he insists, resuming his methods with my breakfast treats.

Deciding the temptation overrules the risk, I sip the coffee. The frothy contents slide blissfully down the back of my throat, soothing every rattled nerve in my body. It feels a bit like heaven.

After another sip, my aggression settles down and I no longer feel like a troll, nor the need to act like one. I sheepishly glance up at Damon. "I'm actually a morning person."

He nods. "Right."

The sarcasm is thick, but considering I've only been awake for three minutes and I've been a bitch to him the entire three, I keep my temper at bay. "I just don't function well without coffee."

"No worries. I've got thick skin."

Well, smoothing that over was easier than I expected. Sticking with the unusual ease of our conversation, I lean across the island and ask, "What are you making anyway?"

"Muffins."

I examine the random pieces in front of him and balk at the idea. "With that?"

He laughs. I realize it's a pretty nice sound when the laugh isn't directed at me. "Yeah, you didn't leave me much to work with. You eat like a toddler, Elena."

And there he is again. Lifting a brow, I counter, "Says the guy with a convenience store of chip bags stashed in his room."

"I had no other option." His eyes lift and connect with mine in a challenge. "What's your excuse?"

With the fluorescent light from above stretching to illuminate his face, I recognize the neon in his eyes from two nights ago. It's wild and intimidating, certainly not natural, but breathtakingly lovely. With thick lashes framing the color, it's hard to look away. I don't, but I sit back, giving proper distance so I'm not sucked into their vortex. It's too early in the morning to combat that lure head on.

"I don't like to cook," I admit. "It takes time I don't have and it's…. well, it's messy."

"Don't worry, I'll clean up afterwards," he says, snickering at my admittance. "And I know I just sort of used your shit without asking, but I wanted to make you something to say thank you. You know, for living with me. I'll buy groceries next week."

The thought is sweet and as much as I want to deny it, the effect lingers, twirling in the base of my stomach. However, considering his first rent check is due next week, I find his promise of groceries hard to believe. "You can't possibly make that much being a server."

"With this face, anything's possible."

I roll my eyes and sip my coffee, pretending his face is nothing like the dazzling piece of artwork it truly is. Then I ask, "Does it get heavy?"

"What?"

"Carrying around that ego all day?"

He turns around to grab some flour from my tiny jar and despite his attempt to hide it, I notice the rise and fall of his shoulders in quiet laughter.

"I don't know," he replies, turning back around. "Is it exhausting?"

I shake my head and ask, "What," knowing his comeback is right around the corner, but doing nothing to stop it. Some weird portion of me is actually enjoying this back and forth we've established.

"Being that self-righteous?" He tosses a few pieces of crumble into his mouth and fails to hide his smug smirk.

I load heat under my narrowed eyelids, but fail to drop the tiny smile at the corner of my mouth. "Tell me again why I let you be my roommate over the girl and her rat dog?"

"My stimulating conversation, of course."

In this moment, I know he's right.

* * *

><p>After a few more minutes of surprisingly enjoyable sparing, I'm instructed to take a shower while Damon bakes the muffins. I linger for a second, unsure if I'm ready to leave him alone in my apartment without the threat of my watchful eye. But he'd been honorable this morning and I couldn't deny the appeal of a shower, especially after his comment concerning the state of my hair.<p>

I text Caroline that I'm alive and head for the bathroom. Ignoring my irritation at how much space Damon's single bottle of body wash/shampoo claims, I make the shower quick, lathering the suds of my shampoo into a frenzy before rinsing them out. A quick condition, followed by a hasty washing and a few swipes of my razor blade in the necessary areas and I'm finished. I step out of the shower refreshed and clean and awake.

It's when I see it. There's a single pubic hair nestled in the grout between two of the ceramic tiles on my floor. Revulsion rips through me, overruling all rational thinking as I twist a towel around my body and throw open the bathroom door. Charging towards the kitchen, I claim, "You left something on the bathroom floor."

Damon entire body freezes. Well almost his entire body. His eyes move. They travel from my face, down the column of my sticky neck, over the cotton of my barely-there towel, and down my legs. When they roam their way back up, they linger at the top of my towel - right at the expanse of drenched skin that stretches to cover my breasts.

Did he just eye-fucking me right now? Oh my god, I think he did.

Under his intense gaze, my cheeks ignite a fierce shade of pink, the blood burning beneath the surface. I'm exposed. I can practically feel his eyes on me as if it were a light caress, ghosting over my flesh. My skin prickles and goose bumps rise to the surface.

Clearing his throat, Damon diverts his eyes and busies his hands with the task of cleaning the mess on my countertop. He doesn't once look at me again as he asks, "And what would that be?"

Ignoring the heat lingering on my skin from the brand his eyes just marked into my skin, I dive back into business. "A pubic hair."

Damon places both of his hands onto the countertop and throws his head back in laughter. I watch the motions play out, noticing the delicious curve of his throat and the way his Adam's apple bobs with each throaty laugh.

Seriously? One smoldering moment and now my eyes are trained on these small details? I needed to get my shit together. And ASAP.

I recompose myself and bark, "It's not funny. It's disgusting."

He's still laughing hysterically, but between breaths, he counters, "How do you know it's not yours?"

"Because…" I start, but catch myself, realizing what I was just about to admit. It's an intimate detail and I'm not sure he really needs to know it.

He stops laughing and inches forward, dangling on the line I just tossed his way. Of course he pulls it. "Because what, Elena?"

I realize I have to answer. It's the only proof I have to win my case and it's the only way I'll ensure he picks up after himself in the future so I never have to deal with this horrid experience again. Pushing a wet strand of hair behind my ear, I resist the urge to lower my eyes to the floor in embarrassment and admit, "Because I'm bare down there."

He doesn't say anything in response. His eyes just narrow. They're dark and hooded and have my breath hitching in my throat. He looks hungry, carnal. Like he's a precious second away from slamming me into the wall, digging his fingernails into the skin of my thighs as they wrap around his waist. I hate the way he's looking at me right now. Actually, the problem is that I don't hate it. I don't hate it at all.

Damon blinks, breaking his concentration before a mask slides over his features. He laughs to diffuse the heavy atmosphere and says, "Well then, I'll pick it up."

He makes his way around the island and past me into the bathroom, not looking at me once. I remain where I am, dumbfounded over what just happened, before I regain my composure and follow him. He's tossing the hair into the toilet when I state, "Um. Thank you."

With a quick tug of the handle, the hair flushes down the toilet. With it goes the tension on Damon's face. He's all smiles when he turns back to me and, thankfully, his eyes stay connected with mine.

But although he appears unaffected by the fact that he just eye-fucked the hell out of me a minute ago, I'm still a bit rattled. My hand fumbles with the bottom hem of my towel before I point in the direction of my bedroom. "I'm going to get dressed."

He nods. "Probably a good idea."

I hastily make my way to my room and close the door behind me. My body sags against the door as I release a heavy breath and my knotted muscles relax.

What the fuck was that? And did it seriously just happen?

I'm no stranger to affection and I've had my fair share of boyfriends in the past, but not a single one ever looked at me with the same intensity Damon just did. It's not ideal. Actually, it's dangerous. He's attractive and I'm single and this is not a situation I need to be thrown into. Living together only works without physical and emotional baggage and eye-fucking is a slippery slope that declines to both.

I take a few more deeps breaths to calm my racing heart and justify the moment with the simple fact that he's a man and I'm a girl. Hormones rage and bare body parts are likely to be exposed from time to time. It doesn't mean that either of us will act out our momentary desires. We're both adults and a moment like this was bound to happen. At least we got it out of the way. Right?

It's what I assure myself as I slip into my clothes and head back out to the kitchen.

The delicious smell of sugar drifts through the air, reminding me of summer fairs growing up in my hometown of Mystic Falls, Virginia. Not the dirt and animal feces portion, but the funnel cakes, cotton candy and battered bliss. Breathing it in, I let its savory decadence swirl around and strangle the unhealthy anxiety that I previously had. Even with candles, I'm damn sure my house has never smelled this good.

"That smells amazing."

My voice trails out lazily as Damon pulls the muffins from the oven and sets them onto the countertop. I didn't even know I owned a muffin tray. That thought is muffled by the low grumble of my tummy.

Glancing anxiously at him, I ask, "Can I eat one yet?"

He nods and answers, "Sure," before lifting one from the tin and placing it onto a plate.

I barely wait until it's pushed in front of me before I shove a chunk into my mouth. It's warm and falls apart on my tongue, exploding flavors over my taste buds.

"Holy shit," I nearly squeal as he lifts another muffin onto a plate for himself. "You can bake."

"Why do you think I work in the restaurant industry?"

I shrug, taking another bite of my orgasmic muffin. "I figured because it was easy to find a job."

"It is," he states, matter of factly. "But I want to eventually make my way into the kitchen. Without a culinary arts degree that's pretty much impossible… unless you get in good with the owner and charm their socks off so they give you a shot."

I want to toss something back about not charming the pants off of their girlfriends in the process, but this is the first piece he's told me about the puzzle that is his life. It's oddly comforting knowing that now I don't live with a complete stranger. I may not have the entire puzzle completed yet, but at least we were making progress. Shoving another chunk of muffin into my mouth, I smile at him and admit, "I like hearing details about your life."

He smiles in return and shakes his head, clearly amused. "Just eat your muffin," he demands before shoveling his entire pastry into his mouth.

Ignoring the crumbs that tumble all over my countertop, I insist, "I'm serious. Tell me more about yourself."

But he reaches down to pull out another muffin and sets it onto my place. "Try this one. I used your Captain Crunch in it."

"I'm not that easily distracted," I say before reaching down to pick up the new muffin. Sure, I wanted to know more about him, but I could multi-task like a fucking pro. "Where did you grow up? How old are you? What's your last name? Or maybe why did you want to be my roommate? Take your pick."

Damon sweeps his hand across the countertop and gathers his crumbs in his second hand along the side. "Why are you so interested all of a sudden?"

He thinks this is about what just happened. That I'm some shameless girl interested in getting to know him because he gave me googly eyes. Sorry to burst his bubble, but I'm not that easy. "Because I want to know who I'm living with."

As he opens the cabinet housing my trash can and dumps his crumbs into it, I smile, knowing I at least live with someone who knows how to follow orders about a spotless kitchen.

Closing the cabinet, he turns back to me and says, "You're living with someone who bakes you muffins so you don't have to down another bowl of cereal marketed to eight year olds."

I shake my head and take another bite of my breakfast. "Seriously, Damon. If I can't at least get your last name, then just tell me why you want to be my roommate. That one's not hard."

He lifts his brows. "Maybe I like clean things."

"I imagine dirty is more your style," I mutter. Oh my god. Did those words really just come out? I wish I could pick up each one and shove them back into my mouth. Actually, it feels like I already did because I'm choking on them. If he didn't think I wanted to have sex with him before, he sure as hell does now.

Damon's eyes ignite with mischief as he sets his elbows onto the island and rests his chin in his hands. "Oh my. Was that a sexual innuendo, Elena?"

I groan, throwing my own head into my hands. "I want to die. Go steal someone's nine-mil and shoot me. Please." I'm fucking mortified. If there was a hole I could crawl into right now, I'd find the deepest corner and sink into it.

He reaches over and pulls my hands away, freeing my face. "See, this is why I'm here. You need to lighten up. Get a little pep in your step. I can help you with that."

He has a ridiculous grin on his face and considering the tiny bit I do know about him, I can guarantee I don't want to be a participant in anything Damon considers fun. "I'm not breaking any laws, Damon."

With a quick shake of his head, he clarifies, "Not what I had in mind."

Considering the situation that just happened ten minutes ago and the fact that he probably assumes I want him, I feel the need to point out, "I'm not sleeping with you either."

He lifts a brow into the air and widens the smirk on his face. "While the offer's certainly enticing, I think it's best we avoid the horizontal tango. You see, it's kind of why I left my last housing situation."

"Oh lord, what did you do?"

He shrugs. "She got attached. I needed a clean break. You know the drill."

Figures. Any sort of attraction I just held for this guy deflates with that explanation. "You're a pig."

He shrugs again, the humor in his eyes still present. "Regardless, I meant what I said. No sleeping together."

I roll my eyes at the absurdity of what he's insinuating. I know nothing about the girl he was previously shacking up with, but unlike her, I can practice self-control. Just because my new roommate is easy on the eyes and has the power to unhinge my logical reasoning with a simple eye-fuck doesn't mean I'll ignore the person he is and take a quick roll in the sheets with him.

Besides, I like businessmen with tailored suits and rainbows leading the way to successful futures. Not someone who steals women's purses when he needs a little extra cash to get him through the night. And I definitely don't like men I now have to live with. What's the motto? Oh right. Don't shit where you eat. I didn't want a dog for that very reason. No shit means no consequences of having to tip-toe around it afterwards. I like my apartment clean; that stands true for my personal life as well.

So I deadpan, "I'll take that under advisement."

But he leans forward, his eyes boring into mine. "I'm serious, Elena."

"Me too, Damon," I insist with a laugh. I'd already come to the decision that Damon was off limits while I got dressed, making sure to tighten every loose bolt in my lust consumed body as I settled on that certainty. "Hell would have to freeze over before I ever jump in the sack with you."

He bites the inside of his cheek, momentarily taken aback with my declaration. But it doesn't last long for his smirk to move back in and claim its rightful place. "Well, alright then. Glad that's settled."

Good. With that single agreement, I already feel better about our living situation. Now we can continue on without the threat of sex or worse, a relationship destroying our potential friendship. Then again, there's something that resembles disappointment floating inside of my chest that I need to dissolve. I take a sip of my remaining lukewarm coffee. It does the trick.

With a quick shift, Damon reaches across and grabs my plate before carrying it over to the sink. "But to answer your initial question: I'm your roommate because I like it here. You keep your shit clean, your apartments in a prime location and occasionally you have a good sense of humor. In this city, that's a rare find."

I ignore the jab about my sense of humor because he's cleaning my dishes and say, "Just remember that come rent day."

"If I need to steal a few purses the night before to cover rent, I will." With a quick glance over his shoulder, Damon shoots me a wink. He sets the two plates into the dishwasher and steps back to his spot at the island. "But now that I've showed you mine, it's your turn. Why do you want me as a roommate?"

"Because you don't have gold teeth, a dog or an exposed mid-section," I reply, before throwing up my pointer finger. "Oh, and you speak English."

"If only I could have been a fly on your wall," he chuckles, shaking his head. "But let me rephrase. Why do you want a roommate?"

"I didn't want one," I admit. "I was forced to get one."

He rolls his hands as though he's pulling words from his mouth. I take the hint to elaborate.

"Because my life got derailed."

He frowns. It's the first time I've seen his lips clipped downward and the image is unsettling. It doesn't look natural on him.

"Care to elaborate on that?"

I inch forward and challenge, "Care to share more about your past?"

"Not particularly." His smile reappears and this time I realize it might not always be as genuine as he pretends it is.

The thought makes me curious, but I decide that if he's closing his informational gates, then I'm doing the same. "Then that's all you get."

"Pity."

We're both stretched across the island with only a foot between us and in his eyes I can see his disappointment. He likes hearing information about me too. But as easy as it is for me to reveal it, I need him to share that ease. This can't be a one-sided friendship. If we're going to live together, he's going to have to bend a little. I just hope that happens.

Lifting my butt from the stool, I instruct, "C'mon we're going shopping."

"For what?"

"A lock for the bathroom door. If we're not shacking up, then I can't have you walking in on me while I'm taking a shower."

Heat floods his eyes. "Who says I'd walk in on you?"

"Fate," I remark. "It's inevitable."

"You're going to have to leave me here at some point, Elena. You can't walk me on a leash forever."

"That's true, but I can walk you on a leash today," I reply with a grin. "Besides, we need to get a spare key made for you too."

He sighs, finally joining me on my side of the island. "Fine, but we're getting groceries while we're out. There's only so many times I can make food out of cardboard."

* * *

><p>As expected, we bicker the entire trip. Damon gives me shit about the doorknob I choose for the bathroom and I resist shoving it back into his ass, along with my foot. I whine about the food he purchases at the farmers market with my money and the fact that I have no idea what half of it is. It'll probably taste like horse manure. I'm dreading dinner already. And when Damon insists on getting a Giant's decal on his apartment key, I stealthily instruct him to pick me out new paint for his room and get one made with the My Little Pony emblem instead. He's practically spitting fire when I force him to use it to open our apartment door that evening.<p>

Essentially throwing bags of food and the paint can onto the countertop, Damon argues, "People are going to think I'm a pedophile because of this thing. Or worse – a Brony." He shudders.

Setting my bags next to his, I giggle at my achievement. "You're being dramatic."

"There is a pink pony on my key, Elena," he stresses, shoving it into my face so I can see the precious oval eyes and jolly smile emblazed on the metal. I imagine mine mimic that right about now.

"Next time make sure the bathroom floor is clean."

His eyes widen in anger. "That's what this is about?"

"Not really," I shrug. "I just thought it was funny. But maybe I'll be less inclined to find the humor in humiliating you when I have a clean bathroom."

He shakes his head and I anticipate another verbal spat flying from his mouth, but he surprises me by smiling. I'm certain it's a figment of my imagination. No one switches from seething to smiling that quickly.

But he accompanies it with a laugh and says, "I'm impressed. I like a girl who can dish a little revenge out."

My mouth drops as confusion settles in. "So you're not mad at me?"

"Oh no, I'm livid, but I'll get over it," he replies, lowering his head so we're eye level. "Just watch your back, Elena."

His eyes are on fire, blazing a brilliant blue. The combination of that and his words have my head fuzzy.

"Gilbert." It flies from my mouth before I even realize it has.

His brows dip. "Huh?"

"My last name is Gilbert."

He nods, processing the information before turning around to shove his hand into one of the grocery bags. "Well, Elena Gilbert, are you ready for dinner?"

I glare at him, refusing to budge an inch or reply until I have a last name in return. Sure, the mysterious act may be sexy to certain girls, but not me. I find information appealing. And comforting. If we were going to live together, I at least needed my tenant's last name.

When he removes a handful of tomatoes from the bags and notices me, he sighs. "Salvatore. My last name is Salvatore."

Italian. _Nice._

"Well then, Damon Salvatore, I'm starving," I state cheerfully. "What are we making?"

"Eggplant parmesan."

I scrunch my nose in disgust, my stomach churning. "I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth."

Damon shakes his head. "Just shut it and trust me. You'll love it."

Despite how I feel about him as a person, I've already learned that the kitchen is the one place I can trust Damon Salvatore. So I do as instructed and pray I won't regret it afterwards.

* * *

><p>We're on the couch again, but this time <em>The Shawshank Redemption<em> is playing on my tube and my feet are tucked into each other, Indian style. My empty plate is practically licked clean in my lap and my tummy is satisfied.

Damon's conceited glee is blasting my left cheek. "See what happens when you trust me?"

"Baby steps, Damon," I mutter, rising to my feet to grab his plate from his hands. Just because he's proven his reliability in the kitchen doesn't mean that flowed into other aspects of our arrangement. He was still the same guy who stole from me two nights ago and it was going to take a hell of a lot more than decent, okay delicious, food for me to trust him completely.

Though, he's taking leaps and not the baby steps I'd let onto.

The whole 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach' saying totally stands true for women too.

"Like I said last night, everyone ends up liking me. You'll come around."

"I never said I didn't like you," I dispute, washing off the dishes and placing them in the dishwasher. "Just that I don't trust you."

He rolls his eyes and pats my seat on the couch, luring me back to my position. "Tomayto, tomahto."

Foregoing the endless back and forth that's sure to ensue without results, I give up. "Whatever."

As I sit back onto the couch, I try to get comfortable, but fail. My pillow keeps jabbing me in the ribs and I don't know what to do with my hands. My couch is for lounging, not sitting, which is what I typically did until Damon moved in.

Sensing my struggle, he chuckles at my efforts and suggests, "It's okay. Bring them on over."

I don't want to get into this routine, the one where I spend my time sprawled over his lap, but I also can't watch the rest of the movie scrunched up in this awkward position. If the movie wasn't so damn good, I'd grab and book and head to the island to read it, but I needed to see if Andy escapes prison. Realizing comfort wins over reason, I swing my legs onto his lap. They settle comfortably underneath of Damon's warm hands - a little too comfortably.

He's just twisted his face back to the television to watch a commercial when I declare, "We're not sleeping here tonight. At least I'm not." It's happening. I'm going to attempt to trust him enough to sleep in my own room. You know, for the sake of not getting too physically comfortable with one another. He doesn't need freedom, but I need space. Besides, I didn't really achieve anything last night by falling asleep and slumbering through his activities this morning anyway.

"You're leaving me alone?" he questions, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. "That's quite a baby step."

"I'll keep my door cracked."

"But you enjoyed our time together last night," he says, laughter edging his voice. "I could tell from the snoring."

Reaching my hand under my head, I latch onto my pillow and swing it at him. "You're an asshole."

He chuckles as it collides with the side of his face. "Yeah, I am."

He's smiling and I'm laughing at his own admittance of that fact and I realize that somehow in only one day, I already feel relaxed with this guy. Sure, he has barriers protecting his entire past, but who didn't have secrets they didn't want other people judging? I'm pretty sure the answer to that is no one.

However, with that ease still sat the nagging notion of demons hiding in his closet. I could survive a little longer before I pushed him further, but it made me wary. Could two people really co-exist without knowing one another? The answer to that one wasn't so obvious.

Taking my bottom lip between my teeth, I chewed on it nervously before building up the courage to ask, "Hey asshole, do you really think that we can make this work?"

On top of his concealed past, we were a single girl and a single guy. That made things tricky, despite level heads and self-control. Even the sanest of people cracked under pressure. Was it only a matter of time before the same happened with us?

He reaches over and claims my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure of it."

I glance down at our interlocked fingers, his own linking with mine. The personal space issue from just yesterday doesn't register as the pulse in our knuckles beat as one. Feeling it, my questions begin to fade and confidence sweeps in to take its place. Maybe he's right. Maybe we're compatible and the rest will fall into place eventually. If not, we'll figure this thing out.

"Okay." Keeping my hand where it is, I glance up at him.

He smiles at me, something warm and encouraging as he muses, "We made progress today. You saw an intimate strand of me, I saw a hell of a lot of you, you're letting me sleep tonight without your highly successful, watchful eye and we learned each other's last names. I think you even admitted to liking me."

"Yep," I reply, returning his smile despite the fact that he's moderately mocking me. It's oddly reassuring to still feel comfortable without a defensive scowl on my lips.

"Enough progress to let me stay in the apartment by myself tomorrow?"

I swipe my hand back from his grip and reclaim my pillow, snuggling my head into the soft cotton as I bite back my laugh. "No way in hell."

* * *

><p><strong>I know details about Damon and Elena's life are still a little vague, but I promise we'll get there. Just stick with me for a bit with this one as the story starts to unfold. Elena's heading back to work in the next chapter so we'll start meeting other characters. Wonder what she plans on doing with Damon…<strong>

_**Please Read and Review. :)**_

_**I'm on Twitter and Tumbler: morvamp**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks everyone for all of your lovely reviews. I tried to reply to most of them, but I know I accidently skipped a few in the process. So if you were one that I missed, I'm sorry. T, there is a special little section in here for you. You'll know what it is when you get it to. ;)**

_**Hope you like the chapter!**_

* * *

><p>My alarm clock blares at precisely 6am the following morning, pulling me from the comfort of sleep. I'm in my own bed, the Egyptian sheets wrapped around me like a warm cocoon, and I feel relaxed. Sleeping in my own space definitely wins over the couch.<p>

Although I'm still a little groggy, I flip the switch on my alarm and sweep out of bed, ready to tackle the day. I swing open my door and notice once again that Damon isn't in his room. This boy has a serious issue with passing out in front of the couch. Not wanting to wake him, I tip toe quietly out to where he's deep in slumber with my blanket sprawled across his chest and his head smashed against my pillow. Great, I'm going to have to Febreeze the shit out of that later so his man stench doesn't jam up my nostrils the next time I use it.

Sighing, I head towards the shower before shutting the door softly and stripping myself of my clothes. I peel my camisole over my head and let my pajama shorts pool onto the floor before I step under the hot spray. With Damon still asleep, I take the opportunity to cherish the scalding water that cascades onto my face and down my back. I don't hurry as I wash my hair and lather my entire body in body wash. And when I exit, I smile at the pristine tiles void of any disgusting pubic hairs.

It almost feels like I'm living peacefully on my own again. I really, _really_ like that feeling.

When I'm dressed in a loose t-shirt and sweats and have a fresh layer of make-up applied, I head out to the kitchen to make a much-needed pot of coffee. Low snores sound from Damon's spot on the couch as I pass, drawing my attention to him when I halt my steps. The pads of my feet twist on the hardwood along with my body as my eyes widen in shock.

The blanket that was previously concealing Damon's body has slipped to the side, revealing his broad, highly-sculpted chest. The lean muscles expand and tense with each breath he takes, his skin practically glowing under the dim stretch of sunlight coming through the window.

It's a hell of a sight, for sure. But it's not what my eyes are fixated on.

He must have switched out of his clothes from last night into a simple pair of navy gym shorts since they're the only article of clothing concealing the hard on between his muscular thighs. And thank god they're in place because that sucker is standing at full mast, practically beaming at me with yellow arrows pointing in its direction. I can't look away. Holy hell, I'm not sure I want to.

Wait. Yes, I do.

But an idea comes to mind and instead of doing what I know I should and divert my eyes, I don't. I swallow so my tongue is no longer stuck to the top of mouth, throw my hands onto my hips and giggle. I'm going to enjoy this moment, the same way he'd enjoyed my embarrassing towel display yesterday.

Damon Salvatore, you're about to be spoon fed a taste of your own medicine.

"Morning Sunshine," I sing-song, using the same phrase he had yesterday.

At my voice, he stirs, scrunching his eyes and stretching his limbs. I ignore the way his biceps and pecs flex with the movement.

When his glassy eyes finally settle onto me, I throw on a conniving smirk and ask, "Having a good dream?"

Confusion settles in his eyebrows before he sees the rod poking from under his shorts. "Jesus Christ, Elena," he barks, throwing the blanket back over his waist as he lifts into a seated position.

I laugh at my success and turn for the kitchen, throwing my hand into the air as I do. "Maybe if you slept in your room, you wouldn't have this problem."

"It's not a problem to me. I'm a guy. This shit happens," he reasons. The nonchalance in his voice is infuriating. "The only problem I have is with you waking me up in the middle of screwing Jennifer Aniston."

"Sounds wonderful," I deadpan, internally fuming over how easily he navigated out of his predicament. The guy has a hard on for Christ's sake and apparently he could give two shits.

"Oh, it was," he replies dreamily, stepping up from the couch with the blanket wrapped around his waist. "She was stretched over a 69' Chevy Camaro, panting my name as I …"

Pouring coffee grounds into my coffee machine and clicking the on button, I turn around and stop him. "Details aren't necessary. Actually, I'm begging you to stop."

"But you were so interested a second ago."

"I was trying to embarrass you," I mutter, swiping creamer from the fridge. "Obviously, it failed."

When I shut the door, he's right next to me. "Nothing embarrasses me." With his breath tickling the side of my face and his stiff member still fresh in my mind under a small blanket, I feel my personal space issue resurfacing.

"Clearly." I turn to glare at him, intent on proving he doesn't affect me, but his eyes are so sleepy. Tiny crinkles etch from the corners and his white teeth gleam from under his grin. His chest is still exposed in all of its pristine glory and I don't understand how someone can look so damn edible after just waking up.

Rolling my eyes at the injustice of life as a woman and life as a man, I turn and open my cabinet to get a coffee mug. "Want a cup?"

"Sure." He chuckles as though he understands each and every thought that just spiraled through my head and follows my steps. Bastard.

I turn on him, pointing to his crotch. "Then get that thing away from me."

Shaking his head in amusement, he takes a seat in the middle island stool. Much better.

"So where are you headed to?" he asks.

"Work."

"I know that. Office building? Corporation name?"

The coffee machine dings. Grabbing the pot, I fill both of the mugs and reply, "You know I'm not answering that. Details work both ways and until I hear more of yours, mine are staying locked up tight."

"Tease."

"I could say the same about you," I point out, setting his cup in front of him before swirling creamer and taking a nice healthy sip of mine. It burns as it trails down the back of my tongue, but I welcome it. "Now go put on some clothes." I walk around the island and down the hallway, adding, "Your babysitter will be here any minute."

"Paybacks a bitch, Elena; remember that," he threats, causing me to smile victoriously and shake my head. Verbal threats are nothing and oddly enough, I don't fear his repercussions.

Leaving my door open, I blow dry my hair and twist the chocolate strands through my curling iron. They fall perfectly around my heart-shaped face, accentuating the smoky eye-shadow I'd previously applied to my eyes. Damon wanders into his room and shuts the door, allowing me to do the same so I can toss on my black pencil skirt and jade silk blouse. It's sleeveless with a small black belt wrapped around my waist, offering professionalism with a little stylistic flare. When I slip into my black heels and apply a thin layer of lip gloss, I'm ready for work. All I need are my portable mug of coffee and my babysitter. Where the hell is she, anyway?

Deciding to wait another minute or two before I text her, I step into the kitchen and fill my stainless steel travel mug.

"Please tell me you have frameless glasses to go along with that outfit. I need a complete image to masturbate to later today." Damon's voice is muffled as I close my eyes. I guess I set myself up for that one. Teasing him about his morning wood evidently opens the door for asinine flirting.

I turn around and find his head dangling from the bathroom and a toothbrush sticking out from his smirk. "You're insufferable."

He disappears momentarily behind the wall before his head pops back out again. "Nope. Dashing, charming, delectable - yes. But never insufferable."

"I beg to differ," I shout as his head disappears again, but I'm sure it's smothered by the water now streaming from the bathroom faucet.

I'm shaking my head at his antics when three knocks sound from the door. I've only opened it an inch before Caroline mutters, "You are lucky I love you. I'm pretty sure I haven't seen this hour since college." She's dressed in a faded loose t-shirt and cut off shorts and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. Even with the random chunks of her sunshine hair poking around her face and the dark circles rimming the bases of her eyes, she manages to look stunning.

"I owe you," I claim, sweeping her into a tight hug.

I close the door as she walks into the apartment and tosses her handbag onto the couch.

"Coffee," she demands. "I need coffee."

"I've gotcha covered."

When I step into the kitchen and start a second pot, I hear Damon ask, "Is this who you've roped into babysitting me today?"

Caroline's eyes practically bulge from their sockets as she takes in my new roomie. In her defense, he has on a fresh pair of gym shorts and has failed to cover himself with a shirt. Without proper warning, the girl didn't stand a chance.

"Thanks for getting dressed, Damon," I grumble before filling up Caroline's mug and walking it over to her.

He smiles his shit-eating grin. "I was about to finish, but I couldn't wait to meet my parole officer for the day."

"You brought this on yourself," I point out before making introductions.

"Caroline this is Damon. Damon this is Caroline."

Caroline's lips twist into a giddy smile as she tosses up her hand and wiggles her fingers at him. Her eyes are twinkling with excitement. Oh no. I know that look well. It's her 'I'm about to have some fun removing your shorts with my teeth' look. I instantly regret my choice in asking her to watch over Damon.

He wags his brows in response and says, "Pleasure. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a shirt to find before Elena has a conniption." He abruptly turns and stalks back down the hallway.

Caroline wastes no time before standing up and widening her eyes at me. "He is _ridiculously_ hot." She purses her lips and glances in the direction Damon just went as she gushes, "Now I see why you let him live with you. Best candidate, my ass. More like candidate with the best ass."

"He's also _an_ ass."

"But he has a six pack," she points out before knitting her brows. "Or was it an eight pack?"

I can practically smell the lust rolling from her in waves and while I adore my best friend, I need to set her straight. My roommate is off-limits, not just to me but to her as well. Turning her face back to mine, I stare her directly in the eyes and order, "Don't sleep with him, Caroline."

She glances wistfully back to the hallway and asks, "What about just oral?"

When she turns back around in time to catch my eye-roll, she sighs. "Alright, don't get your panties in a bunch."

"You know I can hear you, right?" Damon says, remerging from the hallway. He's finally wearing a grey t-shirt.

I close my eyes and groan. "Great." Now I not only had to worry about my best friend's intentions, but Damon playing into them. It's almost too easy for him at this point.

Taking a sip of her coffee, Caroline glances at Damon. "Elena says we're not allowed to sleep together."

"Funny," he muses, a grin stretching over his lips. "I gave her the same ground rule yesterday."

Caroline turns back to me with a hand on her hip and a single brow lifted into the air.

She's waiting for my explanation and I don't blame her. Damon has just completely taken our conversation out of context. But as much as I wish I had the time to deal with both her explanation and his scolding, I'm late. Turning around to grab my travel mug from the island, I say, "Long story."

"You two already have inside stories?" she questions, tapping her tiny foot on the floor. "Am I being replaced as your best friend?"

"With him?" I balk, nearly laughing at the notion as I swing my purse onto my shoulder. "Hell no."

Damon leans towards Caroline and mock-whispers, "She's in denial."

"I've gotta get to work," I gripe before jutting my finger in Damon's direct. "But don't believe a word he says, Caroline."

Damon's chest rises and falls in laughter as I open the door and slip through it. Their silhouettes in my living room are the last thing I see before I close the door and shout, "Don't fuck on my couch. I'm begging you."

* * *

><p>A taxi ride later, I step into my downtown office building and take the elevator up to the 12th floor. A large <em>Mikaelson House<em> logo hangs on the wall to my right and the welcome desk sits to my left.

"Morning, Anna," I greet as I pass the receptionist.

"It's nice to see you made the cut, Elena. It feels a little empty around here today," she returns before the phone rings, cutting off further conversation.

I give her a tiny wave goodbye and head to my office. Well, office is a bit of an overstatement. I sit at a cubicle and share a small room with six co-workers – all of us whom are editorial assistants busting our asses in hopes of achieving professional success. It's nothing much, but then again, I hadn't expected to stay here long. Ignoring my disappointing reality, I toss my purse into the bottom drawer of my desk and boot up my computer.

As the machine buzzes to life, Bonnie walks into the room. She started working here a few months after me. Her 'no-shit' attitude and hard work ethic attracted me instantly and it didn't take long for us to become fast friends. Despite how I feel about still being stuck in this cubicle, I'm grateful I get to continue sharing the space with her.

"Hey, E," she greets, taking a seat in the cubicle directly behind mine. "Did you hear Rose and Kai got nixed?"

"What?" I gasp, twisting my chair around to face her as she unloads her briefcase. While neither were shining stars in the work department, Rose always had a good attitude that kept everyone smiling and Kai had a wit about him that kept us laughing. Both are going to be missed.

Bonnie nods and sits down in her chair. "Glad I still have my partner in crime."

"Same. I'd go crazy without you here."

She shoots me a wink and grabs a granola bar from her desk drawer, chewing through her next words. "So how was your weekend?"

I shrug. "Booze, male prostitutes, a little coke off of some random sinks. Same olé', same olé'."

"So you sat at home with a book in your lap," she deducts. "Typical. You should really consider getting a cat to keep you company."

"Actually, I had big life changes happen this weekend."

"Do tell. Since, my weekend consisted of watching Jeremy sketch concepts of monsters for some new video game they're releasing, I need to live vicariously through you."

She's lived with her boyfriend for six months now and although she claims to hate the boring life they share, I know she secretly loves it. I mean, who wouldn't? She has a man she loves and an apartment that's practically paid for. She's living the good life.

I on the other hand…

"I got a roommate," I say, taking a sip of my coffee. "You know because of the cut-backs. Money is going to get tight and I need the income."

"I hear you," she sympathizes. "So I take it your hours were cut in half too?"

Hearing her news, I frown. Misery loves company, but not in this case. Bonnie works as hard as I do and she deserves better than this place. Actually, so do I.

"Yep. So much for benefiting from hard work."

"Tell me about it," she commiserates. Fortunately for her, she's dating and living with someone who has a steady income - one that's enough to support them both. Bonnie doesn't even need to work, but she refuses to let a man support her. It's something I respect about her character.

"So what's she like?" Bonnie asks, leaning forward in her chair with interest.

"He," I correct. "And surprisingly, he's alright. I don't know much about him yet, but I think it's going to work out."

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

I could dive into the basics of how I'd met Damon, but frankly, I don't want her judgment. Bonnie Bennett is a lot of things - supportive, straight-forward and always eager to offer advice. But this situation with Damon is tricky and probably looks different to someone on the outside. I have a gut feeling about him that I'm not sure she'd reciprocate or understand.

So I shrug my shoulders and reply, "Living with someone is hard and you never know what you're getting into. That's all."

"So you're living with a guy?" Matt Donovan questions as he steps into the room. And while Bonnie is someone I am thankful to continue working beside, Matt is someone I desperately wanted to escape from.

We'd dated for a few months back when I'd first started here and although we'd ended things peacefully, working alongside an ex is never ideal. Plus, it makes office gossip awkward. There are no feelings left on either side, but that doesn't mean I'm oblivious to his assessment whenever I mention a possible romantic option in my life. Not that Damon's a romantic option - by any means. I just know Matt will view him that way.

Thankfully, an incoming email from my boss offers me the perfect out of this dreadful conversation. I politely excuse myself and cross the floor to Elijah Michaelson's office. He's seated behind a large cherry-wood desk with a sheet of windows at his back. It's the view of the city I aim to have some day.

"Ms. Gilbert, please take a seat."

I do as instructed, running my hands over my skirt to straighten out any unwanted wrinkles. I'm always a little on edge during our meetings.

With his hands clasped together on his desk, Elijah frowns at me. "I'm sorry about the recent circumstances you've had to endure."

He's addressing my hourly cut-back and as much as the topic sends vicious blood charging through my veins, I remain professional.

"Thank you, sir."

"And I mean it when I say that your work does not go un-noticed. Times are difficult and unfortunately that means sacrifices had to be made."

Sacrifices my ass. It's easy for someone to sit there in their important chair and discuss sacrifices with a lowly entry-level employee. I'm fairly certain Elijah Mikaelson has never once had to endure the true meaning of sacrifice. The man lives in a million dollar penthouse, zips around in a 2014 Ashton Martin Vanquish and probably drops a grand at the salon to keep his impeccable copper locks in place. He's severe and demanding. And while he's attractive with warm brown eyes, they're deceiving. I know from experience.

He may speak as though his employees are family whose actions must be graciously rewarded, but he follows through on that promise by stealing credit and handing out more orders. Without me, the man wouldn't know a good book if it hit him upside his pompous head. I mean, he can't even make himself his own cup of fucking coffee. He's nothing more than a polished face for our authors.

Ignoring the onslaught of thoughts, I simply nod. "I understand."

"Wonderful. I hope you continue to take pride in your work, Elena, because we surely do," he says. Something resembling a smile creeps onto his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "However, I wanted to touch base with you and stress the importance of maintaining your deadlines. I don't want this incident to affect your work in the future."

He's quite the master manipulator. Slapping on the compliments before driving his point home. Well, Elijah, as much as I want to rip your beautiful locks from your head, don't worry, I'll pass on my sleep and have your new materials to you pronto.

Biting my tongue to keep the truth from coming out, I insist, "It won't."

"Superb." His eyes shift to his computer as he begins typing. "When can I expect Richard Clark's new material on my desk?"

Fuck. I'd forgotten all about the new novel sitting on my desk and hadn't glance at it once all weekend. Its 473 sheets of paper that either need my endorsement or constructive criticism and since the True-Crime genre isn't exactly my forte, I've been dreading it.

"You'll have it by Wednesday."

Elijah simply nods, not giving me the courtesy of looking up from his computer screen. "That is all."

I hastily exit his office and mutter, "It's always a pleasure," before I head back to my cubicle.

* * *

><p>I spend the rest of my shortened work day at my cubicle reprinting Richard Clark's novel before leaping into it. By the time 12pm rolls around and it's time for me to leave, I've only gotten to Chapter 4. It's a snoozer and at this point, I'm unsure how to improve upon its severe level of crap.<p>

My head is heavy as I unlock the apartment and come to terms with the fact that it's only early afternoon. I have at least six more hours of reading in my future and not a single one will be paid for. Life sucks. And it's unfair.

I'm drowning in a sea of self-pity when I open the door and find Caroline and Damon sitting on the couch. They're playing Jenga and in this moment, I feel three things simultaneously: 1. Relief that neither my best friend nor my roommate are naked. 2. Grateful that my couch doesn't need to be deep cleaned to remove disgusting bodily fluids. And 3. Hysterical over the fact that two twenty-something year olds are playing a child's game.

They both glance up from the coffee table at my laughter and unfortunately, Damon's next words rip me from my brief comic relief back to someplace dark. "There's my editorial assistant. How was your day at work?"

He's sporting a satisfied smirk at the information he's acquired. I want to staple it shut.

"Caroline!"

All thoughts of work abruptly dissipate as rage swoops in. This is fucking wonderful. Now all of my leverage towards figuring Damon out is now stripped. I still have no idea what Caroline's told him, but honestly, I'm not sure I want to. Seven years is a lot of history and some of those bits of history contain my not-so-finest moments.

"What?" she asks innocently, throwing her hands into the air. "How was I supposed to know you two were playing some weird game of secret identity with one another?"

"Well… how do you know we are now?"

"Damon might have told me after I answered all of his questions about you," she admits, narrowing her eyes onto Damon. "Nice going shithead."

Damon simply smiles merrily back at her.

"What's the big deal anyway?" she questions.

I slam my purse onto the side table. "The deal is that now I'll never know who the hell this asshole is."

Damon chuckles to himself and remarks, "Is this a permanent nickname? I just want to know if I need to get a nametag made."

I glare at him, but Caroline ignores him completely. "Not true."

"Oh really?" I ask. "Has he given you one good story about his life?"

"Well," she starts, keeping her voice low and fumbling with the bottom of her t-shirt. "No."

"My point exactly."

Caroline turns her eyes on Damon and mutters, "You're a slippery motherfucker."

"Thank you." The smart bastard is still smiling about his manipulative success as he lifts from the couch and heads to the kitchen.

As he pulls a bottle of water from the fridge and takes a long swig, Caroline claims, "But don't worry. It's his turn now."

Damon stops drinking and finally stops smiling. The bottle lowers to the island when I ask, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I have six hours before I head into work, which leaves us plenty of time for a game."

Typical Caroline. Life is just one big game to her. I'm still not grasping how a game can settle this situation, but I play into her idea. Simply to hear what she intends. "What game?"

She stands and proudly throws her hands onto her hips. "Never Have I Ever."

Damon finally finds his voice again to refuse. "Not happening."

I agree with him on that, but only because I have a 400 page book that needs my attention. I'd spent my entire weekend worrying about my roommate. I couldn't waste today doing the same.

"I can't," I decline. "I'm already way behind on reading this manuscript for Elijah."

"Oh c'mon, Elena," Caroline pouts, hands still on her hips as a few strands of hair fall from her messy bun. "They screwed you over so why are you going to bust your ass for them some more?"

Damon shrugs and adds, "She has a point."

I glare at him and try to swing him back to my side, "You really want to play this game?" Not even two seconds ago he'd shut the idea down.

"Hell no," he replies, throwing his head back. "I'm just admitting the girl has a point. Why work the overtime anymore if you're not being paid for it?"

"Because I'm a hard worker," I defend. I feel like I'm being attacked on all sides and for what? For wanting to be responsible so I don't lose my job? How ridiculous of me.

"No, you're a pushover," he counters, stepping around the island so he's right in front of me. His eyes are intense, boring into mine, but I don't back away. "Stop letting them walk all over you."

Seriously? He thinks he can come in here with his perfectly imperfect dark mane of hair, etched from celestial gold jawline and sunset eyes and assess my life? Oh, hell no.

I inch myself further into his space and refute, "First off, you know nothing about me. Not really. I don't care what Caroline has told you and what you think you've learned over the past two days." Damon throws up his hands in surrender before I twist my lips into a smirk. "And second, if I'm playing, so are you."

Yeah, maybe I have a shit ton of work that needs my attention, but it's about time I learned a little about my new roomie. If my business is out for him to know, his business will be too.

He shakes his head dismissively. "I said it's not happening."

"C'mon, Damon," I goad, inching even further towards him and pressing my finger into his chest. "You said you wanted to lighten me up. Now is your chance."

Caroline claps her hands in the background and whoops, "That's my bitch," but my eyes are fixed on Damon's. I'm challenging him, letting him know that he's right and I won't be walked on.

I'm in his space, my breath mingling with his. He studies me intently, his pupils working over my face - searching for something. When it appears he's settled on it, he backs away to ask, "Do you have any bourbon?"

"Do I look like a forty year old man?"

"Today no, but yesterday morning…" He lifts his right hand between us and pivots it back and forth, raising the pitch of his voice in the process. "Eh."

I ignore his jab because I'm in the zone. All bets are off and I'm ready to know Damon Salvatore.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Damon," I say, inching back towards him again with my hands on my hips. "You drink what we have."

This time, he brings his face forward to meet mine, the smell of him invading my senses. I lick my lips. The roles are reversed and he's challenging me now. I fear I'll become an ember in the aftermath of the fire dancing in his cerulean eyes, but I don't pull back. Not even when he whispers, "Fine; I'll play. But only because I like it when you have a little bark to your bite."

"Excellent. Let the drinking begin!" Caroline squeals, jumping up and down. Neither Damon nor I back away, but he smiles. It's something wicked that hits between my thighs.

Only then do I step away.

* * *

><p><strong>I already have a portion of the next chapter written and let me assure you that things will start to get rolling and portions of our couples pasts will finally be exposed. I know I've made you wait a while and I appreciate y'all being so patient with me as I drag you along. My next week of work is going to be busy so my update might be a little later than normal, but I'll try to write whenever I get some free time.<strong>

_**Please Read and Review. :)**_

_**I'm on Twitter and Tumblr: morvamp**_


	5. Chapter 5

**You guys are incredible. I'm loving your reviews and to those of you who leave them anonymously and I can't reply: THANK YOU.**

**This chapter put me through the wringer. I wrote it and ended up being completely unhappy with it. So I rewrote and rewrote and edited and then edited some more. Now, it's nowhere near what I initially intended it to be, but I'm finally satisfied. At least I think I am. For now. **

_**Hopefully y'all like it!**_

* * *

><p>I quickly make my way to my room to change out of my uncomfortable work clothes and into a loose t-shirt and shorts. As I turn and head back out to the common area, I notice Damon's room is darker than normal. He's painted. I smile at the stone grey, realizing that it's the first permanent mark he's made on the place. As much as the idea of having a roommate sucks, it's necessary and the new paint proves he's not going to bolt in a few days, leaving me with a significant rent check I can no longer handle on my own. Plus, if I'm being honest, Damon's not the worst company in the world. And once I get to know him, I might even consider him good company. The residual heat between my legs suggests I've already come to this conclusion. Damn my senseless, traitorous body.<p>

Taking a few more steps, I also notice the new doorknob on the bathroom. Fantastic. If I need any repairs, I now have my own personal handyman.

I'm beaming at that fact when I breach the opening of the hallway, but linger when I hear Caroline and Damon talking. Yeah, I'm nosy. Everyone has their flaws.

"You're too close to my purse," Caroline clips, pausing a brief second before demanding, "Pass it over here."

I lift a hand to my mouth to stifle my giggle.

"I thought we were friends, Blondie. I made you – and I quote – the best damn grilled cheese of your life."

"We were until you outed me for spilling the beans on my best friend," Caroline replies. "Friends don't manipulate friends, Damon."

"Oh, it was all in good fun." By his tone, it's clear he's mocking her now and as much as I'm enjoying Caroline busting Damon's balls – because he completely deserves it – I step out for the sake of his genitalia and interrupt. "You two have been busy today."

Caroline is standing by my open bay window and Damon is lounging on the couch. Apparently his room isn't the only place he's made himself at home. At my words, he grins and flicks his hand through the air. "Yeah. We played a few board games, braided each other's hair, gossiped about you. We're practically besties."

Caroline scoffs and I shake my head, refusing to let it ruin my good mood. I'm minutes away from knowing Damon and that's all that matters.

"You also painted your room and replaced the lock on the bathroom," I reply, smiling like a proud mother.

Damon nods. "That I did."

"Thank you." And I mean it.

He rises, placing his elbows on his knees. "Are you grateful enough to spare me from playing this game?"

I glance at my best friend who is viciously shaking her head no before my eyes shift back to Damon. "Did Caroline help you with any of the work today?"

"Nope."

With a cocky smirk, I reply, "My answers the same."

Damon rolls his eyes, clearly disappointed as he flops back onto the couch.

Caroline takes it as her cue to get down to business.

"Alright ladies and gentleman, the game is Never Have I Ever and the rules are as follows-"

"Care, we all know how to play," I interrupt, scooting Damon's legs over so I can sit next to him on the couch. He's in my spot, but I let it slide.

At my words, Caroline points a manicured finger at me and barks, "Don't spoil this moment for me."

I giggle at her need to be the Bob Barker of our measly house game, but urge her on. "Go ahead."

She smiles at my encouragement. "Each of the contestants take turns saying something they've never done and if other contestants have done it, they have to take a drink. It's as simple as that."

"Is this what we're drinking?" I ask, grabbing the clear fifth of alcohol from the center of my coffee table.

"Yep."

Damon snatches it from my hand to inspect the label, flinging his legs over the side of the couch in the process so he's seated properly. "Whipped Cream Vodka. Superb."

At his sarcasm, I seize it back and point out, "It's free, Damon."

He tosses on a fake smile. "And sounds delicious."

"You're welcome by the way," Caroline mutters, sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table so she's facing us. "I swiped it from the bar last night."

At her statement, Damon curls his head so I can see his shock. "You have a thief as your best friend and yet I'm still the one getting the judgy eyes?"

I wink at him just as Caroline snaps her fingers, demanding our utmost attention. "Alright, let's get this show on the road. Who wants to start?"

With a best friend ready to tag team my delinquent roomie, I'm feeling confident. So I ready my hand to gleefully accept first dibs, but Damon beats me to the punch.

"Since I'm about to get steam rolled, I think it's only fair I get to take the first shot."

Caroline nods. "Go for it."

I brace myself because it's coming for me, I'm certain. He has a whole afternoon of ammunition to fire my way.

"Never have I ever lost my bathing suit top at a friend's pool party."

All of the blood immediately drains from my face as the embarrassment of my college memory shoots through my chest. The humiliation tumbles around in my stomach likes it's on a spine cycle as I relive the dive into the pool and horror of resurfacing without a crucial piece of my bikini. An entire party of drunken idiots were either laughing, gawking or analyzing my breasts until I was able to find the flimsy piece of fabric and maneuver it back on. It took me two months of nicknames for that experience to drift from the campus gossip circle and my good girl image to resurface.

Damon is smiling victoriously at his knowledge of this deeply buried moment of mine. And the only reason he knows it is because of…

"Caroline," I gripe, keeping my eyes on Damon so he can feel the fireballs I'm currently launching his way. "You are lucky I'm on this side of the table and not yours right now."

"Drink this, sweetie," she suggests sweetly, pushing the bottle of Vodka in front of me. "It'll make this process easier."

I hastily unscrew the cap and take a swig of the bottle. Once the burn of the alcohol is officially down my throat, I snarl, "You're dead, Salvatore."

He takes the bottle from my hands, his fingertips grazing against my knuckles as he does. Once he sets the bottle onto the table, he inches towards me on the couch and challenges, "Bring it."

I don't exactly have any moments to embarrass him with and I need to be smart about this. So I settle for something I know as fact. If I can get him to take a few shots right off of the bat, hopefully he'll be tipsy enough to either lighten up on me or spill his secrets when he's cornered later.

Not deviating my eyes from his, I say, "Never have I ever wanted to be a chef."

Damon mutters, "Glad we're learning so much about each other," before he takes a drink of Vodka.

"We're just getting started," Caroline claims, "You can keep the bottle, Damon, because never have I ever stolen someone's purse."

"You're spared this afternoon, Blondie," Damon states, taking another gulp of Vodka. "But I'll get you back for this eventually."

She flips her brows towards her hairline and throws her fingers out jazz hands style. "I'm shaking in my boots."

"Alright," Damon says, twisting his face towards mine for what I'm sure is gut punch number 2, "Elena, never have I ever had my boyfriend's parents walk in on me while I was screwing their son."

Oh dear lord. Matt Donovan's sweet mother never even knew what hit her, but in this moment, I do - another wave of humiliation.

Turning to Caroline, I ask, "How in any way did this seem necessary to share with him?"

Damon happily hands me the bottle as Caroline shrugs. "He got me talking and you know I can't help myself. I'm a fantastic storyteller."

As the second batch of liquid slips over my tongue and down my throat, I decide to laugh instead of cringe. It's best if I handle this situation gracefully so I'm rolling with the punches. My change in temperament might also have something to do with the shot.

And thank goodness it changed because as the rounds continue, I'm bombarded with shameful moments of my past. There aren't many, but Damon seems to pluck each one from their dark recesses and drop them center stage. He shoves my streaking incident down my throat, wipes the moment I tripped walking across stage to get my degree in my face, and all but topples over in laughter at the mention of me breaking dishes in order to kill a spider in my apartment two years ago. My neighbor, Mrs. Flowers actually filed a noise complaint on me about the last one.

I would be immersed in my own disgrace if I wasn't laughing so hard at my less than finest moments. However, while Damon is successfully achieving his goal of dousing me in nostalgic mortification, Caroline and I have only uncovered that he is 29, has a driver's license and has never lived anywhere other than New York. We're failing. And miserably.

Damon Salvatore's past is an elusive little shit.

It's time to get serious and in doing so I need to take a different approach. So when it's my turn once again, I proclaim, "Never have I ever been in love." I'm aware I'm revealing an intimate detail about myself, but at this point, I'm unsure what other tactics to take. At least this way I'll uncover something about Damon I don't already know.

Which I do.

Caroline takes a sip of Vodka, which I already knew would happen since she's been in love precisely three times. The first broke her heart; the second stomped all over its remains and the third happened to be collateral damage as she repaired the fragments that still remained.

But as she hands the bottle over to Damon, he shakes his head. He's never been in love. It shouldn't come as a shock considering I know he's already a pig. His lack of commitment is the reason he's my roommate, after all. However, I thought I was a rare breed. Love comes often and to many, especially those our age.

My brows crinkle in confusion because now I'm curious and slightly fascinated. "Really?"

At my expression, Damon shrugs. "It's pointless."

Well that explains why love has eluded Damon. You have to be open to it in order to actually find it. And Damon's sealed up like a vault.

Caroline throws her fist into the air and agrees, "Hear hear."

I ignore her because I'm interested now. His vague and cliché' answer can't be all there is to this. Either he's been hurt or there's something else he's failing to say, so I challenge him. "You don't honestly believe that, do you?" I may have never experienced it myself, but it doesn't mean I've written it off for good. I want love someday. I've just been too preoccupied with keeping my life in order to actually find it.

Damon tilts his head to the side, causing a few midnights locks to fall over his forehead. "Look, there are 7-billion people in this world and the concept that you find one in order to settle down with is absurd. Everyone can work for each other – as long as the attraction is there. So why make the choice to stop taking the chances and stop having the fun in order to slow your adventure down and stand still with someone?"

"So you're saying that if you met that one person you felt was right for you, you'd simply ignore it for the harem of women waiting around the corner to fuck you?" One-night stands are fun, not that I've partaken in any, but I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt. However, they don't last forever. Appearances fade, charisma fades and along with those, so do the opportunities. "Sounds lonely."

"It's not," he replies smoothly. "But that's what I'm trying to tell you – there is no one person that clicks perfectly into that place romance novels and movies have brainwashed women to believe exists. It's a myth that chains you to your future heartbreaks."

He threads his fingers through his hair, brushing it out of his face before they flow through the air with life. He's full Italian now. "But okay, let's say you're right. You find that person you believe is your soulmate." He makes air quotations and rolls his eyes at the last word. "People are social creatures. They evolve, they travel, they move on. People nowadays don't hold a single opinion for long, so why would they hold one regarding another person for any longer? What's going to make them stick around? Nothing. Boredom is inevitable. Temptation is inevitable. Monogamy is the only piece that's not inevitable and it takes a lot of fucking work. And when given a choice, most people take the easier one - the one that involves orgasms and an endless merry-go-round of interchangeable partners."

Damon finally stills, the light in his eyes dimming as his face becomes unreadable. Then he declares, "So no, Elena, I haven't been in love because I don't want to be. There's no point. People are fickle, they don't always want to choose you and they never stick around." I hear the words he doesn't say, "People always leave."

"However," he claims, leaning back in the couch as his smirk slides on in. "I've been in lust and I act on it quite frequently. Life's more satisfying that way."

In some secluded portion of my head, I can rationalize what he's saying. It doesn't mean I have to agree with it. The notion is too depressing for me. So I respond to it cynically, the same way he has. "You say this like every relationship is doomed to end."

He shrugs. "I'm a fatalist."

I follow his cue and lean back in the couch as well, crossing my arms against my chest with a smile on my lips. I refuse to let his mentality on love obscure mine. "Well, I'm an optimist."

Damon leans to the side so his shoulder nudges mine. "Well then, little miss optimism, why haven't you been in love yet?"

Because despite what Damon's insisting, I know my someone is still out there. I want the love so few obtain, one where I don't settle. The one with passion and defining moments that shakes us to our core. I want devotion and fireworks, humor and acceptance, balance and instinct. And I don't want someone willing to walk away. I just haven't found that and as a result, I haven't felt it either.

The words dance along my tongue, but since Damon's teasing me and my answer will fall on deaf ears, or more likely result in laughter, I settle with, "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Don't worry, Elena, your Ryan Gosling will gallop in on his white horse someday," Caroline assures before shifting our focus back to the game. She fails in her attempt to get Damon to drink and in return he calls out another unfond memory from my past, but I'm not really listening. I'm still pondering his reasoning behind his disbelief in love.

The initial portion had been facts aligned to challenge its sustainability, but the second had taken a more melancholy turn. His cynicism wasn't just about the temptation; it was about his faith in people. More importantly his belief that they'll fail to stay. The thought sticks and refuses to budge when I take my sip of Vodka and the turn falls on me.

I set the bottle back onto the table and say, "Never have I ever felt abandoned." I don't want it to be true, but I can't shake the notion that for Damon, it is.

My eyes are sad as they study his reaction. The smirk slips from his lips, stretching them into a thin line. His demeanor transitions from easy to rigid and the muscles in his arm cord. His eyes shift slowly to mine, reading my intentions behind the question before I notice his jaw tense.

I've hit a nerve.

I shouldn't, but I stoke the fire. "Damon?"

His eyes linger on mine a second longer before he blinks and pulls them away. "Me neither."

It's a lie. A harsh, wretched lie that has my arms yearning to reach out to him. Instead, I lock my fingers together in my lap and squeeze.

"Well I have," Caroline mutters, taking a shot. "Alright, never have I…"

But her words fade as I continue to analyze Damon's speech. It's on repeat in my mind, a splinter I can't seem to remove. It's festering and I'm picking and more than anything, I want to get to Damon's truths. I want him to stop hiding. It might have something to do with the alcohols effect on my judgment, but when the turn gets back to me once again, I antagonize Damon a little more.

"Never have I ever lied during a game of never have I ever."

I blink my eyes at Damon innocently, but the indication is clear. I know he's fibbing and he knows I've caught on. His jaw ticks.

"I have nothing to hide," Caroline claims, also shifting her focus onto Damon as she catches onto my plan.

We're both anxiously awaiting Damon's next move, but he doesn't drink.

"Let's change up the rotation," he says instead, his lean muscles still strained and taut. And before Caroline even has a chance to refute, Damon leers at me. "Never have I ever continued to work for a company, knowing they were taking advantage of me."

Any sympathy I previously held drains from my body as indignation surges in. My fingers contort into tiny fists in my lap so they don't reach out and slap him across the face. Yeah, maybe I shouldn't have pushed the abandonment, but he's just flat out insulted me.

Fury bubbles just below my surface as I take a gulp of Vodka and shoot back pleasantly, "Never have I ever been a degenerate who has stolen more than purses." It's a low blow, but I'm done playing nice. Damon's not, so why should I? This way I can quickly get to the bottom of what he's done.

There's a storm brewing in Damon's eyes as they darken from their sky blue with midnight clouds. He throws a shot down his throat and keeps his voice perky. "Never have I ever been delusional enough to consider living through my books actually living."

He's smirking and I take the shot because the asshole is right. "Never have I ever been to jail."

He does the same. The tension is rising, but our anger is composed. We're screaming without screaming. We're passive aggressively accusing.

"Never have I ever wasted my time meticulously cleaning my apartment or drowning in my work so I don't have to face the reality that my life isn't what I want it to be."

This time, I don't take my shot. I shoot my face forward so it's right in front of his. Blood is boiling in my veins along with the alcohol in my stomach. I feel the blood concentrating in my lips. "Never have I ever killed anyone." Yeah, I may be getting ahead of myself, but I can't help it. I'm a bull and he's the red cape. There's no stopping me now.

Damon doesn't take a shot this time either, he just inches his face further towards me. The tip of his nose brushes against mine and I can smell the sugar on his breath. It accentuates his bogusly sweet tone. "Never have I ever looked down on someone else because they were inferior to me."

We're both breathing hard, our chests rising and falling in unison. His eyes flick to my lips when Caroline shoots up from the floor and shouts, "Holy hell, you two. You either need to screw each other or shut the hell up."

Her hand is on my shoulder, trying to sooth me, but I brush it off for the sake of finishing this. "No Caroline, just one more and then I'm finished." This time, the façade drops. My words are slow, dripping with venom as I declare, "Never have I ever lied about the person I am."

Damon's eyes are wild, his brows dipped inward in disdain. I hate that he still looks radiant.

"I'm done," he says softly, lingering a second longer in my face before he stands up, grabs his My Little Pony key and walks out my front door. To my surprise, he doesn't slam it on his way out.

"What the hell was that, Elena?" Caroline scolds.

Without Damon's presence, I feel my nerves slowly start to fizzle out and my breathing begin to regulate. "He just got under my skin."

"You called him a murderer."

Yeah, not my finest moment.

"Well he called me an OCD clean freak who doesn't leave her house or enjoy her life. And he called me a snob." When I say it out loud, I sound like a petulant five year old.

"Elena," Caroline says, stepping around the table to take a seat next to me on the couch. "I say this with love, but is he wrong?"

"Not about most of it," I sigh, realizing she's right. I don't know how he figured me out so quickly, but Damon had simply pointed out the things I considered undesirable about myself. They'd been harsh truths. While I'd provoked him and verbally attacked his past. Considering that, I scrunch my nose and glance at Caroline. "Do you think I'm a snob?"

The answer is yes. In this moment, I am a gigantic, heartless snob. I'm Regina George, minus the tact.

But being the perfect best friend she is, Caroline sweeps her arm around my shoulder and pulls me into her. "Nah. But I do think you acted a little bitchy." I lean my head against her shoulder, hating myself for letting my temper get the best of me. Stupid alcohol.

Then again, Damon's drinks didn't showcase a perfect citizen. Yeah, I may have gotten my answers the wrong way, but I still had my answers and they weren't promising. For some reason, they still didn't worry me. And _that_ terrified me. "Am I stupid for letting him live with me?"

Caroline rests her cheek against the top of my head. "I'll admit, I had my doubts about him initially, but he's funny and smart and he picks up after himself. He even took initiative today to paint and fix the bathroom lock. That was all him, not me. And he seems to really like living with you. Well, he did. We've all done shit we're not proud of before. So I'm not saying you forget his past, I'm just saying you should give him the opportunity to explain it to you himself."

My best friend may not always make the correct choices in her own life, but she has an innate way of making me realize the right ones for mine. "Do you think he'll come back?"

"He has to," she assures. "His bag is here."

That's true. I just hope my apology is enough to get him to stick around when he does.

Rolling my eyes, I mutter, "Never have I ever fucked up royally."

I drink.

* * *

><p>Five hours later, Caroline has left and Damon still hasn't returned. I'm beginning to get nervous. Even <em>The Sea of Tranquility<em> and the character of beautifully flawed Josh Bennett can't distract me from the gnawing sensation in my stomach that Damon isn't coming back. When I fear an ulcer is starting, I put the book back in its appropriate spot on my bookshelf and decide to clean. The monotonous act has never failed me in the past, but after forty minutes of wiping down already spotless surfaces, I'm still as anxious as ever. So I make dinner. It's a comfort food night again. If only I had Damon here to make me something scrumptious instead of the standard box of mac n cheese I pull from the cabinet.

The door finally creaks open when I'm rinsing the elbow macaroni in the sink. Damon's steps are loud enough for me to hear him over the gushing water. I flip the handle down and turn to face him and to my surprise, there's a small apologetic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Its indication enough that this won't be another heated match and instead a friendly conversation. I'm relieved.

However, it's still awkward. Damon says nothing as he takes off his boots and sets them beside the door. And when he finally steps over to take a seat in the far island stool, I say, "Hi."

"Hey."

I tug on my bottom lip with my teeth and consider the best way to start this shameful apology he deserves, but Damon takes the lead.

"So we had our first roomie fight. Ready to toss me out on the streets yet?"

His tone is light. I release the breath I'd trapped in my lungs.

"Your duffels still in your room, isn't it?"

He nods. "That it is."

"Then I guess we'll keep it there. Too much work to move it out."

His shoulders sag, the tension from them deflating. He glances at the empty macaroni box resting on the island and asks, "You're just keeping me around for the cooking, aren't you?"

At his joke, I smile. He's acting normal. _This_ is normal.

"Nah," I admit, pulling the colander of macaroni from the sink and pouring it into the pot. "I'm actually a culinary master when it comes to the microwave."

He doesn't laugh at my own mockery which causes me to glance up. His hands are clasped together on the island as his thumbs fumble together. He's using a great deal of concentration on those thumbs when he whispers, "The things you want to know about me are tricky."

At his mention of earlier, I reply with, "I'm sorry," because I understand that and I don't blame him for rising into battle with me. When his eyes lift to mine, I add, "I shouldn't have insinuated the things I did. As you can tell, I get a little nutty after a few drinks."

"Yep. Still have the welt from that shoe you chucked at me," he replies, the corner of his mouth lifting. Mine does the same.

When they both drop, he adds, "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said. I get a little touchy after a few shots to my ego."

I nod, breaking away to grab the butter and milk from the fridge when he adds, "I've never killed anyone. So you can sleep easy tonight."

Well that's a relief. I may have a criminal who's been to jail for a crime I'm still blind to, but at least I don't have to fear my life.

"Good to know." I turn around and pour the products in with the macaroni, along with the cheese and stir. "Care to elaborate on any other crimes you haven't committed?"

"Elena," he warns, "It's not something I like to talk about."

I keep my eyes focused on the macaroni instead of Damon because I want him to feel comfortable, not pressured. "And I get that. I just want to get to know the person I've let live in my apartment, with me _and_ my things. I want to feel safe with you. I can only do that by understanding you."

"You might not understand me."

When the macaroni is blended and creamy, I take the opportunity to look at him. "Then again, I might."

He doesn't seem convinced and it's when I remember his unspoken words from earlier. _People always leave. _I don't understand what's happened to him to force this outlook he holds of other people, but I want to. And I want to prove I'm different.

So I lean towards him and say, "I want you to trust me enough to tell me. Have faith that I might not be like everyone else and walk away. Hell, it's my apartment, I _can't_ walk away."

His eyes narrow at my words, or maybe the truth held within them before he counters, "Like you trust me?"

I get the point he's making, but there's a difference between trusting someone with details and trusting a criminal with all of your personal belongings when you're not around. "I'm trying to."

As he chews on the inside of his cheek, I can't help but wonder if he's embarrassed by his past and it's what's keeping him from sharing it, despite his comment this morning of never being embarrassed by anything. People create facades to conceal their true selves. Maybe that's what he's been doing with me.

"Look, Elena," he starts with a sigh. "You think you'll understand, but it's not that simple. My life hasn't been sunshine and rainbows like I'm sure yours has. It has layers. Fuckloads of layers."

I lift my brows. "You think my life was easy?"

He doesn't respond, just waits for my next words. I can shut down again, seal up my past, but we'd get nowhere. So I take a leap of faith, hoping in some way I earn a bit of his trust by showcasing a bit of mine.

Placing my hands on the counter, I speak evenly. "My father died when I was six and my mother didn't know how to handle it. She lost herself. After that, she liked everything in our life wrapped in perfect little bows and a kid doesn't exactly fit that mold. I wasn't allowed to play with the other kids in the neighborhood because my knees weren't allowed to get dirty. She'd have panic attacks when I was ten minutes late getting home from school. She'd punish me for speaking out of turn and she'd slap me if I didn't act like a porcelain statue of excellence in front of her friends. She wanted me to be her daughter, but she wanted me to be perfect more. So while other teenagers went to parties, I sat at home studying so I could one day leave that place. Which I did."

Damon's breathing is steady, his eyes unwavering as he absorbs the information I'm gifting him.

"Not what you were expecting?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Caroline may have left that out during our gabfest."

"Because that all predates my Caroline era and she doesn't know. I only speak to my mother twice a year and she no longer has any influence in my life and the decisions I make. She lost that luxury when she lost her humanity." _And broke my wrist in three places._

My voice is neutral because there are no emotions associated with my parents anymore. I hardly knew my father and my mother disappeared before I ever really got to know her. They're both distant memories now and I'm not broken because of them. I'm free.

I throw sincerity behind the chocolate of my eyes and say, "So, Damon, let me assure you that you're not the only one who doesn't like to look back at their past. We all run from something. And I get running from an old life."

He's quiet for a long time, weighing his options. As I wait, I turn the knob to low so the macaroni doesn't get cold. I want to continue this conversation, but I want my dinner warm afterwards.

When he finally rakes his hand through the air and takes a breath, my eyes flick to his. "You're right. You've managed to get away from yours, but mine has a messy way of tumbling back in." He says this softly, sadly. "Can you just trust me when I say that I'm not the same guy I used to be and leave it at that?"

I frown, dissatisfied in my tactic and frustrated with Damon. I'd opened myself up and for nothing. So I take the pot from the burner and divvy the macaroni into two bowls, making sure his eyes are trained on mine as I pass him his.

"Trust has to be earned, Damon."

"I know." His eyes downcast to the bowl in front of him as he begins eating, signaling the end of the conversation.

I grab the seat next to him and do the same instead of sitting on the couch. I'm just not ready to slip back into our normal routine yet. But the silence is deafening. I can hear each piece of macaroni he chews and each scrape of our spoons against the porcelain bowls.

There are only two spoonfuls of dinner left for me to eat when Damon finally says, "My mom died giving birth to me and my dad was a drug addict. When the narcotics and I became too expensive for him to afford, he gave me up. I hardly knew him but from what I remember, I didn't like him very much. After he kicked me out, I spent most of my life on the streets of Washington Heights, surviving. Because of that I've done a lot of shit I'm not proud of."

My spoon is dangling in mid-air, a single bite left in my bowl, but I'm no longer hungry. I'm disappointed – in life, in parents, in fate. The words _people always leave_ sound in my head again, but this time I actually understand them. It's impossible to have faith in someone when the only one who was left to love you abandons you.

He doesn't divulge anything else about his past or the crimes he's committed and as much as I want what's still untold, I let it slide. He'll tell the rest eventually. At least this is a start.

I don't glance at Damon as he continues eating because he's not reaching for a sentimental moment or more attention. It's not why he offered me the information. And I don't feed him some reassuring line about life getting better and everything being okay now. He knows that and they'd be wasted words. Instead, I offer him something better, something he actually wants – my trust.

"I'll tell Caroline not to come tomorrow. You're babysitter free. Don't make me regret it."

I focus on my final scoop of macaroni as I lift it to my mouth and chew. Damon doesn't respond, but out of the corner of my eye I see him smile.

* * *

><p><strong>The book mentioned in this chapter is <strong>_**The Sea of Tranquility**_** by Katja Millay and it's one of my absolute favorites. So if you're looking for new material, I'd definitely check it out.**

_**Please Read and Review. :)**_

_**I'm on Twitter & Tumblr: morvamp**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Happy TVD Thursday!**

**Guys, I'm sorry. I sucked so much at replying to your reviews for the last chapter, but please know that I appreciate each and every one. They really do give me that extra burst of inspiration when I stare at the blank screen for each new chapter.**

**There were a few questions asked that I want to answer real quickly before we get started.**

**1. Unfortunately, this story is only going to be told from Elena's perspective. Depending on how the remainder of the story goes, I might include an epilogue from Damon, but I can't make any guarantees. 2. Elena's incident with her mom will be described in more detail later, so you'll find out what happened with her wrist.**

* * *

><p>The following morning, I go about my routine quietly. Damon is passed out on the couch again – no surprise – and despite following through on my decision to trust him alone in my house with all of my personal belongings; it's safer if I let him sleep through most it. It's his first day of work today and he works the lunch shift, so I know that alone time is inevitable, I just hope it doesn't come back to slap me in the face.<p>

He's still peacefully snoring when I click the door closed and head to work, complete with my travel mug of life nectar and a blueberry pop tart in hand.

I exchange greetings with Anna as I pass and then bury myself in Richard Clark's _riveting_ novel. Yes, I'm avoiding Elijah's half of the floor for the sake of bypassing his status update because I once again failed to accomplish a single minute of work when I got back to my apartment yesterday. Instead, I spent it focused on Damon. Funny how that's becoming a trend.

When my computer clock reads 11:55am, I know I'm in the clear. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief and begin packing up my essentials to leave when Bonnie swivels around in her chair.

She glances at the manuscript in my hand and asks, "Getting any better?"

I give her a concise, "No."

"Bummer. At least you're halfway through."

I slide on a fake smile and give her a thumbs up. "Which means I only have to waste another half day of my life on this garbage."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm making my way through a New Adult Romance where the leads actually use the term bae. I've counted. They've said it 43 times."

"A romance where the protagonists are ignorant enough to use a term of endearment that _actually_ means poop or a tedious depiction of the Alaric Saltzman murders?" I say, putting on a show as I pretend to weigh the options. "It's a tough call, but I think I'd still rather have your assignment."

"Please," she begs dramatically, slamming the palms of her hands together like she's praying. "Take it off of my hands. I'm begging you."

I giggle at her display and shake my head. "Sorry, B, but that's your hell. I've got my own and that's more than enough."

"Yeah, figured as much," she grumbles as I toss the never-ending manuscript into my purse. "So how's the new roommate thing coming along?"

"Good," I reply, dragging out the word.

Her eyes narrow. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"I dunno. The way you said 'good'. It was slow and comfortable, like you just had sex." Her eyes widen as her face contorts in horror. "Wait. Did you two sleep together?"

"God no!" I exclaim. "First off, I've only known the guy a few days. Second, he's my roomie. And third, I'm not that stupid." There's also the doozy of number 4 and the fact that he doesn't believe in love, but I'm not sure if that's public knowledge. So I keep it to myself.

She visibly relaxes at my answers. "Whew. You had me worried for a minute. The last thing you want to do is get involved with someone you're living with."

"Trust me. I know." I've had this conversation with myself already. Multiple times. And despite letting my eyes occasionally assess Damon's figure, I'm keeping my attraction to him under wraps.

But she keeps going. "Things would get awkward if you're not serious about each other or they could continue on and get _really_ awkward if you broke up. You'd have to get a new roommate."

At her rambling, I set my purse onto my chair and throw up my hands. "Bonnie, slow down. We didn't sleep together and we won't be sleeping together. Damon and I are just friends. At least, we're trying to be."

I'm vaguely aware of Matt's prying eyes pointed in our direction now, but I ignore him. I really need a new cubicle location.

"Then I'd like to meet him," Bonnie claims, all cheer now that my relationship with Damon doesn't involve bumping uglies. "Jer and I are planning a game night next Friday if you don't already have plans. Just something low key. Maybe charades or something along those lines. You should bring Damon."

Despite our failed attempt at a civil game yesterday, this one doesn't involve truth telling or shameful secrets. Without the pressure, I'm sure Damon and I can make it through the night without any scratches.

"Sure. Sounds fun. I'll check to see what his schedule is and make sure he's not working. If he's not, I'll drag him along kicking and screaming if I have to."

I reach down and grab my purse, ready to leave when Bonnie admits, "I might also have a secret agenda to this game night."

She's biting her thumb nail as I ask, "That being?"

"Jeremy has a friend who I think would be perfect for you."

Her expression is painted with enthusiasm, but mine shares none of it. "Because the last time the two of you tried to set me up ended _so_ wonderfully."

Liam - I don't even remember his last name – was decently good on the eyes, but he'd been a pompous prick. And after a mind-numbing evening of his detailed accomplishments and ridicule of mine, I'd finally told him to shove his accomplishments up his ass and get a better personality.

Bonnie nods. "I'll admit, Liam wasn't my brightest decision, but Stefan is nothing like him and I think you two would really hit it off."

Since I'm already juggling the process of trying to figure out one guy in my life, I'm not completely certain about tossing another into the mix, but I figure why not.

"What the hell. I'm in."

"Perfect. I'll supply the booze and make a few snacks. Just tell Damon to bring a date too so we have even teams."

The instruction sparks a bolt of panic through my body, but I quickly recover. "Sure. See you tomorrow." With a smile in place, I wave her goodbye and pretend the idea of Damon with another woman doesn't have my fingers curling into fists.

* * *

><p>There's a post-it note from Damon on the fridge when I get back to the apartment saying he'll be home around 7. This means I have the place to myself for a solid six and a half hours. I smile at that fact.<p>

I pull a can of Campbell's soup from the cabinet and start heating it up in the microwave before changing out of my work clothes and making a trip around my apartment. Everything is still in place and Damon's duffel is still in his room. Both are good signs that one of my priceless decorations - or knick-knacks, as Damon likes to call them - won't show up on ebay or in the thrift shop down the street.

When the microwave dings, I grab the steaming bowl of tomato soup and set it onto the island, ready to get back to work. But when I spread out the manuscript and pull my crucial red pen from my bag I realize it's too quiet. I turn on the television as background noise, but that fails to do the trick. So I switch to the radio, hoping a quiet beat will help my brain focus. It doesn't.

After a few slurps of soup, I can't figure out what's wrong with me. My home – and more precisely this kitchen island - is where I'm usually most productive, but now everything feels off. The setting is eerily calm, the lack of interaction is driving me crazy and I'm desperate for a distraction. Without Damon, I'm unsettled.

Shaking my head at how bizarre I'm acting, I switch off the music, grab my pen and force myself to work. And after a half hour of staring at a single page, I do just that.

* * *

><p>It's dark by the time Damon walks through the door and at the sight of him, I smile thankfully. I'm no longer alone. Realizing what I'm doing, I drop my lips and my attention back to my work so he doesn't see it. I don't need to appear <em>abundantly<em> pathetic.

"There you are," he says, setting two bags on the island across from me. "Caroline told me about this terrifying creature that's constantly hunched over hundreds of pages, obliterating them with a red pen. I was wondering when you'd surface."

"Very funny," I mutter.

"Great. I can already tell you're going to be a blast tonight," he drones with a roll of his eyes. "I picked out some fresh ingredients at the farmers market for dinner and even splurged on a bottle of this thing you women drink called wine." He pulls the bottle from one of the bags and shimmies it in the air. "I'm not sure how I feel about this red color, but the lady assured me it'll knock your socks off. I figured it was okay as long as we drink it over the sink. Can't risk any spills." With an amused smile, he gives me a wink.

It's quite the gesture and he's put effort into this evening so I don't deny him my smile in return. "Thank you, that was…" the word tip toes on my tongue before I push it out, "sweet. But I'm swearing off alcohol for a while."

"Because you turn into the Ms. Hyde version of yourself? Yeah, probably a wise choice. We'll just put this up here for a special occasion then." He sets the bottle on top of the fridge and begins unloading his ingredients. Some are foreign to me while many are bright, wonderful colors. I'm hypnotized by the selection.

"So be honest, how many times did you check every nook and cranny of this apartment when you got home?" Damon asks, pulling me out of my trance.

Tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear, I answer honestly. "Once."

He nods approvingly. "I'm impressed. You really _are_ starting to trust me." Pulling a wad of bills from his back pocket, Damon rifles through them and throws a stack in front of me. "This might help the process along a bit."

"What's this for?"

"The fifteen is the money I owed you for the purse incident and the other is to go towards rent."

After a second of eyeing it up, I pick up the cash and count it. Holy shit, there's $415. Plus whatever the hell is being shoved back into his pocket. "You really weren't kidding about that face of yours, were you?"

"Nope," he replies, popping the p. "The middle-aged women can't seem to get enough of it."

I shake my head and roll my eyes, but a smile still tugs at the corner of my mouth. "Your modesty is commendable."

Leaning his slender frame over the island, he taps my nose and teases. "I've missed that bark of yours today."

I want to tell him that I've shockingly missed our repertoire too – especially his funny remarks and the sound of his laugh in response to mine. But it's more than that. I've missed the shuffle of his feet along my hardwoods, the fluid motion of his actions, the warmth of his skin hovering next to mine and the way his presence fills the entire apartment, making it less stuffy. The truth is: I've missed everything about him today. Including the tenderness in the way he's looking at me right now.

But since that's not exactly an appropriate response, I ask, "Is that salmon?"

He follows the path of my eyes to the fish beside his hand. "Look at you knowing quality ingredients."

"I know what salmon is, Damon."

"I was sure that unless it contained lethal amounts of high fructose corn syrup, you'd be completely oblivious to a foods existence." He shrugs innocently. "My mistake."

"This is coming from the former homeless kid," I point out before leaning forward to tease him in return. "Tell me, how many of these quality meals did you make growing up?"

Thankfully, he doesn't take offense. He chuckles at my jab, rolling his eyes in the process. "I had the occasional foster family before they gave up on me."

The sentence and its easy delivery have a crack splitting into my heart, but he doesn't give me a second to feel it before he pushes on.

"And you'd be surprised what you learn to create with limited options." The image of breakfast medley muffins floats through my head before Damon lifts from the counter. "But let's skip this discreet segue of yours into more facts about my past, shall we?"

"That's not what I was doing."

"Sure it wasn't," he replies, the sarcasm dripping. "What are you working on?"

At the mention of my dreadful work, I sigh. "The same manuscript I was supposed to be working on yesterday. But the genre really isn't my cup of tea. It's boring and vague and yet still holds an abundance of pretentious diction in every damn sentence."

Ripping open plastic wrap with his thumb, Damon pulls a cherry tomato from its little basket and tosses it into his mouth. "Is that the same one on your desk back in my room?"

"Yes."

"Then I feel your pain. Only an idiot can make a badass like Alaric Saltzman dull."

My brows lift at the fact he even knows who this psychopath is. "You are aware that Alaric murdered 28 women, right?"

"Yeah, sure," he says dismissively, passing by the info as if I'd simply told him Alaric sported a goatee. "But the guy was a genius. He had an impressive tolerance for hard liquor, threw down with some of the big wigs in the Chicago crime scene and still lived to tell about it. He took what he needed and stole what he wanted. Plus, any man capable of luring educated women back to his apartment in order to 'slay' their demons gets an automatic win in my book."

I eye him warily. "I don't know whether to be impressed with your knowledge or terrified by your enthusiasm."

"The first. Definitely the first."

Threading my fingers through my hair, I sigh. "Well then, I have an even bigger problem on my hands because somehow Richard Clark has managed to write a terribly boring True-Crime depiction of this supposed badass and I don't even know where to begin with correcting it."

Damon's eyes lift from the cheese he's unwrapping to meet mine. "Want my help?"

"You read it?" I ask, both astonished and impressed.

"I had some free time last night after you went to bed. I think you fall asleep the same time geriatrics do." He sets the cheese onto the counter and walks around to my side to give me judgy eyes. They glare the perfect shade of disapproval. "Really, Elena? 9pm?"

"Some of us wake up before the sun does, Damon." I sneer. "Now shut it and help. I'm desperate."

At the sight of my hands clasped together in a beg, an arrogant smirk that I'm becoming all too familiar with makes an appearance on his face. "What are the magic words?"

"You're an asshole."

"I still need to get that nametag made."

I literally snarl at him.

"Alright, alright," he says, shaking with laughter before he leans over the top page of Richard's manuscript. His shoulder brushes mine as he reads over the copy and the heat of it mushrooms out onto my arm.

I'm trying not to get lost in the sandalwood scent radiating from his skin when he points at the paragraph in the middle of the page. "Here's an example. The problem with your new book is that the guy's facts are inaccurate. No one would shatter a car window before they steal it. They'd shimmy a wire hanger between the window and the weather stripping and find the lever. It's not rocket science and way more inconspicuous."

He twists his head so our eyes meet. "And when the author actually gets his facts correct, he leaves out the details. Instead of just saying Ric broke into someone's home, he should explain how he loops the rubber band around the chain lock in order to get it to release."

I'm vaguely aware that Damon's describing details on how to commit certain crimes, but I'm more interested in the color of his eyes. From this distance, I'm caught in his riptide. That luring blue of the ocean is threatening to pull me in as the waves recede. However, I'm aware of what's happening just enough to step back safely onto the sand and keep my head above water.

Then I pry, "And how exactly do you know all of these methods?"

"I watch a lot of movies."

"Sure you do."

He cocks his head to the side, switching on the charm I've uncovered is his defense mechanism. "Curiosity killed the cat, Elena."

So I do the same. I bat my eyelashes at him and lift my lips into an endearing smile. "And deflection annoyed the roommate, Damon."

"That's unfortunate," he pouts before winking and stepping back around the island. "Now get back to work. You know the issues now and you're not ruining dinner by working through it."

I roll my eyes at him, but otherwise do as he says. With Damon's guidance, the process is easier and my red pen rolls effortlessly across the pages, slashing here and circling words and sections there. Damon's noises and humming are my background melody and the aroma of dinner is my motivation. But although the process goes smoothly, I'm still lacking the thrill that typically satisfies me as I make corrections. I used to gain so much pleasure from accomplishing a task and making another's work perfect and now all I feel is relief that it's nearly completed.

When Damon finally announces that dinner is ready, I'm finished and lacking my traditional triumph. It's disconcerting, but I don't want it to spoil our meal. So I simply smile as he sets down my plate of Feta Salmon Salad and I take my first bite.

Once again, the decadence of the meal douses my taste buds in euphoric bliss and I let out a tiny moan.

Noticing Damon's grin as he observes my first bite, I appraise, "Thank you for making dinner. It's delicious."

"Of course it is. But feel free to keep making those noises of yours if you'd like."

I laugh softly before downing another bite and although I'm astounded by the taste of our meal, I'm still consumed by my lack of interest in my work. As much as I try, I can't shake my unease. Damon might still be a stranger, but he's the person I have right now and I need a sounding board more than ever.

Then again, Damon can't necessarily be labeled a stranger anymore, can he? I know about his childhood, I recognize his habits and although his past is still littered with holes, I understand him.

Deciding he's perfect for the job, I turn to him. "You know, yesterday when you called me out about working…"

"Do we really have to do this?" he groans, stabbing a piece of salmon with his fork.

"Do what?" I ask, genuinely ignorant to what he's suddenly so riled up about.

"Another caring and sharing session."

"You know," I say slowly, "people sometimes have meaningful conversations with one another."

Damon's eyes are closed and his head has fallen back onto his shoulders. A little smack to the shoulder is all it takes to startle him back to life.

"Wait. Were you talking? Sorry, I dozed off for a second."

"You're hilarious," I deadpan. "But really, about my work…"

Damon interrupts me to say, "I used your soap this morning when I took a shower."

I rub my temples in an attempt to remain calm and collected. "You didn't. But it's okay. I switched to body wash anyway."

"I didn't towel my feet off before I stepped out of the tub and let the water drip all over the tiles."

At his second effort to get a rise out of me, I glare at him. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to delay this conversation," he replies, grinning like a smug idiot. "Obviously."

"Well, are you done?"

He diverts his attention back to his salad and lifts a chunk of cucumber into his mouth. "I drank straight from the carton of milk last night."

"You wouldn't dare!" I scold, trembling at the image of his saliva on the rim of my 2% half-gallon.

Damon bends his head back to me and challenges, "Or would I?" He's wearing his shit-eating grin that gives away his lie and I instantly unwind.

"Damon, please," I beg. "I'm trying to say that you were right."

"Usually am."

Finally realizing my effort is pointless, I pick up my fork and mutter, "Never mind."

"Oh, c'mon, Elena," he stresses, lifting his hand to fix the strap of my camisole that has fallen down my shoulder. "I'm kidding. Go on."

His fingertips burn my flesh as they skate over my shoulder and now I'm frustrated. Having a serious conversation with Damon feels like pulling teeth - painful with nothing but a big gaping hole of nada to show for it. And yet, my body is still ludicrously attracted to him.

I pull my shoulder from his touch and take another bite of his delicious fucking salad. "No. Let's just talk about more meaningless crap like my poor taste in food."

"Stop being a sour puss," he remarks with a chuckle. "Just spill what you want to spill. I'm here. Divulge."

I glance at him anxiously and although he's teasing me, his eyes reveal he's genuinely curious. I may still be frustrated with him, but I need my sounding board. So I sigh and set down my fork.

"Okay. Well the thing is, I used to love what I do and I had no problem working my life away because I was working _towards_ something. But I'm starting to worry that I'm stuck."

"At a place that takes you for granted," Damon inserts matter of factly.

"Yes. My life has always been planned out and on this strict path of achievements, and now that I know a promotion is no longer an option, that drive isn't there anymore." I take another bite of food to configure my thoughts. After chewing it slowly, I admit, "Or it could be the material. Or it could be the distractions. I don't know."

Damon shrugs. "Then quit and find someplace else to work."

He makes it sound so easy, but, "It's not that simple. Jobs aren't easy to come by and I already have you living here because my funds are inadequate to my bills. I just don't know what to do to get that fire back."

He eyes me thoughtfully. "Have you considered writing?"

"No," I respond without hesitation. "Absolutely not."

"Why? It's not like you don't have the life experience to share a unique voice."

Hearing someone else reference my incidents with my mother is foreign and yet somehow reassuring. It's no longer a secret I carry around on my own anymore. It's a pleasant thought, but not the topic of our conversation. So I switch back to it.

"Because I like the control of analyzing and critiquing someone else's work. I'm not sure I'd be able to handle the same criticism."

"You don't say," Damon mocks.

But I ignore him. "And even if I did want to become a writer, I'd still have to find another job."

I wait as he chews his food, pondering all of the pieces I just tossed in his direction. Just as I think he's ignoring me, he says, "Alright then. When life hands you lemons…"

"You make overused clichés?"

Damon shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "You're missing my point. You have this path lined up in your head, but even straight roads meander."

"Are we just tossing out any cliché now?"

He places his index finger on my lips, effectively stifling any further forms of my interruption. I have a strong urge to pull it into my mouth and taste it with my tongue.

When he has my silence, he continues on. "Your company sucks and according to Caroline you work more than anyone should. Until now, you've been alright with that. But now you're pissed and have the opportunity to shake it up. You can still find success. Just keep pumping out materials for the Mikaelsons and look into other companies on the side. Ones that will pay you what you're worth."

After a beat, he pulls his finger away, offering me the chance to respond.

"And if they find out?" I question.

He smiles something genuine and heartfelt. "We hope like hell my pretty face holds up long enough to support us both until you find another job."

I'm struck by the sincerity of his tone and the generosity of his offer. Damon technically owes me nothing - besides the remainder of his rent check next Friday – and yet, he's invested enough in this friendship already to support me if I need him to. In a world full of shitty people, it's becoming glaringly obvious that an exceptional one stumbled through my door.

Tendrils wrap and constrict around my heart, giving it a swift tug.

"You'd do that for me?" I finally ask.

"Only if you replace my fucking pony key with the Giants one I want."

It's suddenly on my to-do list for tomorrow after I get off of work, but for the sake of keeping up our usual charade, I reply, "We'll cross that road when we get to it." Taking a bite on my now lukewarm salmon, I tease, "You know, you can buy it yourself now that you have some spending money."

"Where's the fun in that?" he scoffs, repeating my action.

That reminds me…

I coat on the enthusiasm so hopefully a bit flows through Damon and mention, "Speaking of fun. My friend Bonnie invited us over next Friday for some charades."

Damon flips his brows. "Sounds scandalous."

He's right; it's the absolute opposite of scandalous for a single guy in his twenties, but there's also another important part of the evening I have to admit. "It's a set-up."

He chokes on his bite of lettuce. "For you?"

"Yep."

His eyes darken; his features morph into hard lines and sharp edges. If I hadn't been paying attention, I might have missed the shift entirely before it dissolved into indifference. "And why exactly do I need to be there?"

I shoot him an apologetic smile. "Because she wants to meet you. And I'd like your opinion. We're friends and my friend's opinions are important."

It's subtle, but his eyes light up ever so slightly. "So my opinion matters to you?"

I scrunch my nose and admit, "A little."

"Then it's a good thing I work the lunch shift that day."

"Great," I reply, a little too eagerly. And I shouldn't do it, especially since I have another guy lined up to be my date for the evening, but before I know it, the words, "And she wants you to bring Caroline as your date," tumble from my mouth.

I, Elena Gilbert, am a liar.

My throat is tight, but before I'm even given the slightest chance to redeem myself, Damon grins wickedly. "Does this mean we finally get to fuck on your couch?"

"Hell no," I exclaim. "It just means it's been a while since Bonnie has seen Caroline and she doesn't want too many people there." _And that the thought of you with another girl wrapped around your arm sends fury through my bloodstream._

Damon holds out his hand for me to shake. "Okay then, I'll be there to judge your wannabe boyfriend if you look into other jobs."

My eyes narrow at his conditions before they relax and a smile graces my face. He's pushy, but he's doing it for my benefit and I can't deny it's nice to have someone in my corner. It takes a minute for me to ease the feeling rushing through my body.

When I do, I point out, "You've only lived here a few days and already you're asking me to make important life changes."

"I'm an overachiever."

I can relate to that so I take his hand and shake it. "Well then, deal."

His grip tightens on my hand, the warmth of it enveloping my fingers, as he turns serious. "And we watch _Scarface_ tonight. It's on AMC."

"You're pushing it now."

With my hand still trapped in his, Damon inches forward with a cheeky smirk. "Don't fool yourself; you live for our push and pull." He's rights, I do. I also live for the words that follow. "Just wait until I find your pressure points. Then we'll really start having fun."

* * *

><p><strong>If you guys haven't noticed yet (ha), I'm giving this 'slow burn' thing a shot with this story. However, it's M rated for a reason and I swear we'll get to that point right along with Damon and Elena. ;)<strong>

_**Please Read and Review. :)**_

_**I'm on Twitter & Tumblr: morvamp**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Yep. I say it every time, but you guys are amazing. Thank you so much for all of your lovely reviews. They keep me eager to write and there's simply nothing better than hearing your response as these two find their way to each other.**

**A huge thank you needs to go to my friend Kate **_**(This Is My Escape) **_**for pre-reading this chapter for me and assuring me it wasn't total crap.**

_**Hope y'all like it!**_

* * *

><p>I've switched outfits more times than I can count and right now I'm not even moderately satisfied with the appearance reflected back at me in the mirror. My make-up is perfect. I have eyes enhanced with smoky shadow that makes my ovals pop to perfection, my foundation is barely noticeable and the thin layer of gloss I've smeared onto my lips makes them look plump and kissable. My hair cascades down my back in satin curls and my nails have a plum color applied to them.<p>

But the outfit, well, that I can't seem to get right.

I discard the shorts and beige and white stripped racerback tank onto my bed with the rest of my rejects and rifle through my closet for the next option. I think half of it is currently on my bed. When I slip on a little black dress, the reason behind my fretting peers in at me through my cracked bedroom door.

He's dressed in a faded brown t-shirt and dark-washed jeans, looking effervescent in what I'm sure took an effort of three minutes. I know this because over the past two weeks I've learned quite a bit about Damon. I know it takes him a total of twelve minutes to shower and be presentable for work. I know he likes the taste of nutmeg in his coffee. I know he prefers watching suspenseful thrillers with thought-provoking dialogue, but still sits with me as I wade my way through various romantic comedies. I know he watches me from the corner of his eye when I stretch to dust the top bookshelf. I know he enjoys the smell of vanilla because he's switched my wall plug in back to the scent each time I've attempted to change it to lavender. I know the sound of me biting my nails as I work through a manuscript makes him want to smash his fists through walls. And I know that when he smiles at me, it's genuine about 90% of the time.

I also know that I am completely, undeniably attracted to him. And the attraction isn't going away.

My roommate is many things - sweet, hilarious and reliable (the last is supported by the full rent check I dropped off this morning) - but available as an option for me is not one of them. He's still emotionally detached, still has his secrets sealed up and padlocked and at the end of the day he's still going to be the man I live with. Sex with him is strictly off the table.

However, it doesn't matter how often I give myself the rundown, my physical instincts overrule all rationality. He's like a cigarette. You know it's deadly, but after a few sips of alcohol, you're incapable of resisting its seductive lure.

Which is why I need tonight to go well. And that starts with the perfect outfit. With it, I can charm Stefan's socks off and hopefully follow it with an ignition spark. I also need Damon to stop eye-fucking me from the doorway.

"Are you ready yet?" he asks. "Caroline's waiting in a taxi downstairs and you know even better than I do that you don't keep that girl waiting."

He's right. From past knowledge, my girl is two minutes away from stomping her little ass up the stairs and into my apartment to push me through the front door. It won't matter if I'm only sporting a bra and matching set of undies. She's perpetually on time. Always. And damn if I'll be the one standing in her way.

But I need to look perfect, and this lace-back dress just isn't doing the trick. It's very possible my breasts are sagging. What little I have of them anyway. "I need another minute."

"Elena," he groans, lifting up my phone so I can read her text. "She's using all caps and if I have any shot at a peaceful evening ahead, you're seriously shitting on it right now."

"Caroline will be fine," I reply, attempting to undo my back zipper and failing to reach it.

"Stop changing your outfit like an indecisive teenager," he scolds, stepping into my room to clasp the button above my zipper. "You could show up in a paper bag and still have this guy nutting in his pants."

"I think there was a compliment lurking in that statement."

He's looking at me through our reflection in the mirrors. With his broad hands now resting on my tiny shoulders, I look delicate beneath his form. "Listen to me because I'm only going to say this once. The guy would be a fucking imbecile not to be interested in you."

"Stefan," I say, more to myself than anything. "His name is Stefan."

His hands drop at my date's name. "Yeah, I know what his name is. Now grab your purse so I don't have to deal with Caroline's pissy mood for the rest of the evening."

I do as instructed, finding it interesting that only one person seems to have the pissy mood. And it's not Caroline.

* * *

><p>Thankfully, Damon's mood transitions to normal as soon as we join Caroline in the cab. The three of us slip into comfortable conversation for the twenty minutes it takes us to arrive at Bonnie and Jeremy's apartment. It's located in a stone building in one of NYC's most coveted neighborhoods, Gramercy Park. And as we exit the cab, there's a couple walking a poodle, completing the façade. We take a short elevator ride up to the third floor and after a single knock, Bonnie greets us at the door.<p>

"Hey guys," she welcomes, throwing her arms around me in a hug before ushering me on in.

"I'm so happy you could make it, Caroline. How long has it been?"

"Too long."

I breathe a sigh of relief at my friends' words, knowing they've fed into my lie. Since my attraction to Damon isn't public knowledge, nor do I want it to be, I hadn't been able to feed my girls their lines. Apparently, I didn't need to.

They hug and Damon steps through the door.

"And you must be Damon. It's nice to meet you."

He cakes on the charm and shoots her a mega-watt smile. "The pleasure's all mine."

Shutting the door behind her, Bonnie starts pointing around the lavish apartment. "You can put your coats in the bedroom. Drinks are in the fridge and appetizers are on the coffee table."

I take the opportunity to quickly dispose of my coat and when I re-emerge from the bedroom, I notice Jeremy talking to someone in the kitchen. Considering he's the only person here that I'm unfamiliar with, I automatically grasp that he's my date.

He's actually a looker. And he's radiating intensity. With chiseled cheekbones, sculpted brows, summer green eyes that sparkle from across the room and…

"He has hero hair."

Damon's standing behind me, his chest pressed against my back and his breath hot on my ear.

Without turning around, I whisper, "What?"

"He has hero hair," he repeats. "Slicked back with gel, not a strand out of place. It's ideal for crime fighting and screwing you in the missionary position."

He's being childish. I roll my eyes. "And I'm guessing yours would be categorized as villain hair?"

Damon steps around me, bringing the topic of our conversation into view. His hair is tousled. Rebellious and wild. All I can think about is sex. "If the shoe fits," he purrs. He shoots me a wink before he walks away to rejoin the party, his fingertips skimming down my arm as he goes.

Ignoring the goose bumps, I take a deep breath and focus on Stefan. He's my date and although I now fear the repercussions of someday running my hands through his pristine locks, I still find him attractive. Hopefully his personality matches the shell.

When I sashay up to him and introduce myself, I find that it does. His hand shake is firm and his laughter at my little jokes is comforting. He's a bit stiff at first, but not enough so that I'm disinterested. And once the conversation starts flowing, it continues with ease.

"An editor is an impressive career. I wouldn't mind spending my days reading through new material." Stefan lifts his beer into the air and adds, "Plus, you get access to advanced copies others are dying to get their eyes on."

"Editorial _assistant_," I correct. Despite sending out at least twenty job inquiries since I'd made my deal with Damon, I've failed to receive a single email back. That meant I was still an assistant. "And sure, the job has its perks, but it also comes with a slew of crap. For every work of art, you have about 50 flops that never make it to shelves."

His eyes crinkle as he smiles. "Still sounds like a decent profession."

I giggle. "You say that now."

"Well, fine, we could trade spots for a day," he offers playfully, taking my hand in his. "You work in the hospital and I'll sit in your cubicle and chat with Bonnie all day."

Bonnie, who is not so inconspicuously standing three feet away from our conversation, shares a smile with Stefan. She's tickled pink. Damon, on the other hand, turns around and places his hand on Stefan's shoulder. A little too forcefully. Thankfully, Stefan doesn't seem to notice.

"That might not be the wisest choice, _Dr_. Stefan." He draws out the doctor portion of his title. "See, our girl here gets squeamish around blood. I nicked my neck shaving the other morning and she practically collapsed at the sight of it."

Blood rushes beneath my cheeks and before Stefan has the chance to come to his own assumptions about Damon being in my apartment in the morning, I explain, "Stefan, meet my roommate. Damon."

His eyes shift between Damon and me, widening in surprise. "Wait. You two live together?"

"Yeah," Damon smirks. "But it's not awkward. At all."

But this conversation is.

However, Stefan gracefully maneuvers through it. "And what do you do, Damon?"

"I brighten people's lives with my dazzling smile." It's set on high now before he shrugs. "I also serve them their food."

Stefan nods. "Which restaurant?"

"Pepolino. The one on West Broadway."

"Nice place," Stefan replies before lowering his eyes onto me. "Maybe Elena and I could come in for dinner sometime."

Oh no. I think he just referenced taking me out on a date. Under different circumstances, this wouldn't be uncomfortable. But with Damon a step away and Stefan insinuating we share a meal at his restaurant, I'm starting to feel cornered. A bead of sweat drips down my neck.

Thankfully, Damon saves me from having to supply a direct answer.

"Sounds delightful." Actually, the way he says it sounds like he's just been punched in the junk.

The tension is suddenly thick and all I can think about is how I seriously don't want to have Damon as our server when Stefan takes me out for our date. Hell, I don't even want to stand here anymore. But Caroline swoops in like a knife, cutting through the tension. Grabbing Damon's arm, she says, "Well, there you are."

"Yep. Only one step away from where I just was."

She brushes his remark off with a batting of her doe grey eyes. "Would you mind mixing me up a drink? I'm parched."

After a brief pause, Damon sighs. "Sure. Elena?"

I'm secretly wondering why Stefan didn't offer when I reply, "Yeah. I'll have another too. Thanks."

With a brief understanding smile, Damon steps away and starts mixing our drinks.

I'll admit, without his presence, it's easier to breathe. It's also easier for Caroline to embarrass the hell out of me. She takes a step forward and gushes, "So _this_ is the Stefan my good friend Elena here has been dying to meet."

I widen my eyes at her lie. I've only mentioned Stefan to her once and by no means did I embellish my expectations or excitement. Now I don't only appear overly anxious, I also look desperate.

"I'm just kidding," she claims, giggling at her joke before her eyes turn serious. She stabs a tiny finger into Stefan's chest and warns, "She's an awesome chick and you're lucky to have a chance with her. You do her wrong and I'll remove your dick from your body. What the heck, I'll probably take the balls too."

With a dazzling smile in place, she blows him a kiss and walks off to the living room, shouting, "Let's get these games started."

To my shock, Stefan chuckles at her. "She's got spunk."

I smile at my best friend and agree, "That she does." When I glance back at Stefan, I realize she also has his eyes.

* * *

><p>As the charades commence, it becomes glaring obvious that our designated teams of couples aren't working. Despite our similar interests, Stefan and I just can't get on the same page. We're trailing in last place with five points. Caroline and Damon aren't doing much better with eight and Bonnie and Jeremy are blowing us out of the water with seventeen. It's not helping that Jeremy can depict anything within a matter of seconds. The guy has serious talent and it shows in his drawings.<p>

When Stefan fails to guess the title of the movie I am trying to portray with an expertly drawn – if I don't say so myself – wolf in a tutu, Damon finally groans. "Dances with Wolves."

Caroline slaps him on the shoulder and scolds, "Why can't you be that intuitive when I'm drawing?"

He takes a swig from his bottle of Sam Adams Summer Ale and remarks, "Because your stick figures don't leave me much to work with."

"It's clear we need to switch up our teams," Jeremy interjects as I put the cap back onto my dry erase marker. "Caroline, you team up with Stefan, and Elena, you go with Damon."

"Maybe then we'll have some decent competition," Bonnie chimes in with a smile. The match up has taken priority over my set-up apparently. Though, I don't really mind. Stefan is nice and his hand constantly resting behind my back on the couch is calming, but it doesn't send by heartbeat fluttering into oblivion like I'd initially hoped. Besides, his eyes have been stealing glances at my bombshell of a best friend all evening while mine have been doing the same with Damon. I think it's safe to say, I'm out of the running with this one.

So I settle into my new spot next to Damon. He doesn't move his arm around my back like Stefan had, but already the position feels more comfortable. Somehow, I knew it would.

"Ready to kick some ass?" he asks, twisting his head to show off his confident smirk.

With him as my partner, I am.

"Fuck yes."

"Then let's do the damn thing."

He lifts from his seat and pulls a folded sheet from the basket, reading his phrase. His smirk stretches further onto his cheeks when he sticks it into his pocket and uncaps the marker.

"Ready?" Bonnie asks, holding up the tiny plastic hourglass timer.

Damon nods.

"Go."

He hurriedly draws an upside U and attaches it to a rectangle and although the shapes are piss poor, I recognize the item immediately.

"Purse," I shout out.

Damon gives a quick confirmative shake of his head before dragging the marker along the board to form an L and a V intertwining.

I lift from the couch and squeal, "Louis Vuitton."

He makes a show of wiping off his shoulder and dropping the marker before he states, "And _that's_ how it's done."

We high-five proudly when Jeremy claims, "Eight seconds. That's gotta be a household record."

Damon shrugs. "We're kind of a big deal."

"How do you even know what a Louis Vuitton handbag is?" Bonnie asks in astonishment.

Damon and I share a knowingly look.

"Don't let them fool you," Caroline scoffs, standing up as she readies to take her turn. "They have inside secrets that helped them along."

Yeah, maybe she has a point, but as the games continue, we each shout our answers without the help of inside secrets. We slay the other teams, and arrogantly. Damon does little Michael Jackson shimmies with each round we win and I accompany it with a whoop and dancing twist of my own. My voice is hoarse by the end of the night and my hand is blood red from the intensity of our high fives. We rock. And we make damn sure the other teams know it.

When the games have ended, everyone disperses, caught up in their own conversations. As I sip my drink and join Jeremy in the kitchen, he praises, "That was quite a comeback."

"Don't call it a comeback," I sing.

"We've been here for years." Damon follows up before he disappears down the hallway and into the bathroom.

"The power couple of the night raps too." Jeremy laughs, amused at our show.

I giggle, ignoring the tiny bubbles that burst in my stomach at the word couple. "When the occasion calls for it."

"I'm sorry you didn't hit it off with Stefan," he says in earnest. "Bonnie's not going to take that failure lightly."

I glance back at my supposed date who is engaged in a very animated discussion with my best friend and shrug. "Can't win 'em all."

"I'll get over it," Bonnie chimes, joining us in the kitchen. "I'll eventually find the right guy for you. Just give me time and a dozen more options. One is bound to stick."

With a knowing eye, Jeremy claims, "Or maybe one already has."

At his implication, Bonnie shakes her head. "Oh, no. Elena already knows that one's not a good idea. They're just friends."

Despite the protests clawing at the back of my throat, I toss on a fake smile and agree. "Yep. Just friends."

* * *

><p>"Stefan was a shining star of fun, wasn't he?" Damon mocks on our cab ride home.<p>

"Shut up, Damon." I can't take his arrogance at the moment, especially after my failed attempt to jump-start a new relationship.

"I thought he was sweet. A bit too passive for my taste, but sweet nonetheless," Caroline says, leaning her head onto my shoulder. "He's really interested in literature, Elena. Maybe you should take him to the library for your first date. You can make out in the non-fiction stacks."

Oh, my adorable, blissfully ignorant best friend.

"I don't think I'll be hearing from him anytime soon." Our brief parting where he'd kindly pointed out that neither of us was interested had hit the final nail in the coffin. His words were true as much as I wished they weren't, and he'd been polite about the whole thing so maybe we'd be friends someday.

It's funny how that works. The one you want romance with falls into the friend category, while the one you desperately want to remain friends with keeps accidently claiming more. Life's a messy, fickle bitch.

"I'm sorry," Caroline says softly.

The worst part is: I'm not.

* * *

><p>We say our goodbyes to Caroline and Damon's practically gloating as we walk into the apartment. When he tosses out another snide remark about Stefan relating to the murkiness of dishwater, I've had enough.<p>

"I get it," I clip, dropping my purse onto the table by the door. "You didn't like him. You can shut the hell up now."

Damon sets his boots beside the table and quips, "Someone's in a 'tude."

"No, someone is tired." And I am. I'm disappointed in tonight and I'm disappointed in myself. Both have left me emotionally drained.

"I take it that a movie is off the agenda then."

"Since it's one in the morning, you'd be correct." I don't even look at him as I turn and head down the hallway, ready to end the evening. "Goodnight, Damon."

"Elena, wait," he pushes out, taking long strides so he can reach for my arm and twist me around. "I actually _am_ sorry things didn't work out."

With my back against the wall, I don't lift my eyes to meet his. I know I'll see no sympathy in them. "You're not, but thanks."

"You're right. I'm not," he claims stubbornly. "But only because any guy that chooses Caroline after he's met you is thinking solely with his dick. You can do better than him."

A humorless laugh flies from my mouth before I finally dart my eyes up to meet his. "And what's better than a hot doctor with a PhD and an astronomical paycheck?"

There's only one clear answer to that question after the events of the evening. Damon had been jealous; his actions had made that fact transparent. He'd all but gained another burst of life when we'd been partnered up and his haughty attitude since we'd left Bonnie's has only proven the first two weren't figments of my delusional imagination.

So I wait for the response. It's two letters and a single syllable. Nothing more than a breath.

His mouth doesn't dare speak the word, but his eyes do.

In that moment, I know for certain that I'm not in this alone. We both see the cliff; it's just a matter of stepping over the edge now.

"Don't," he warns softly.

I haven't moved. My back is still pressed against the wall of the hallway and he's still towering over me.

"Don't what?" I ask.

He doesn't respond immediately. He just stares, not moving, not retreating, as I remain locked under the weight of his gaze. When he finally speaks, his words come out slowly and they lack any of his usual humor.

"When we were leaving, Bonnie thanked me for bringing Caroline. Turns out she had no idea she'd be joining us until you told her last week."

He closes his eyes and breathes. The gust he releases sends wisps of my hair fluttering around my face. His hands aren't even on me, but I feel him everywhere. It's what I'd been missing with Stefan and as much as I wish I could deny it, Damon is flowing hot and heavy through my veins with every beat my heart takes. I ache. In this moment, all I want is to reach out and touch him before he says, "I'm not an idiot and I can put two and two together."

Humiliation should be sweeping in now, but it doesn't. Instead, I feel relief that I no longer have to burden the weight of my hidden attraction.

But when he finally opens his eyes, the depth of their sadness breaks my heart. "Don't want me, Elena."

He's right in the fact that I _shouldn't_ want him, but unfortunately I do. I want to tell him to stop with the unnecessary touching then - to stop with the flirting and stop with the jealousy and claiming - but all that comes out is, "Why?"

He shakes his head, giving me nothing. "Just don't."

There are at least ten reasons why I shouldn't, but right now with his breath on my lips and his body blistering heat onto mine, I can't think of a single one. He's the ocean and all I want is to drown.

"Just tell me why," I plead softly. If anything is going to keep me on the sand this time, it's his backstory. I need the awful things he's done in the past. I need his honesty and I need something real and concrete to keep my feet locked where they are or else I'll dive in head first.

"Because I'm a shitty person," he finally says; conviction ribbons through the statement. "It's what you want to hear, isn't it?"

I don't speak, I don't budge; I just hang - on his words, on his direction, on him. Because even with the declaration, I still don't believe him.

"It's true," he stresses, countering my thoughts. "I've done shitty things my entire life and I come with baggage you can't even begin to imagine." His voice holds a cumbersome degree of self-disdain and all I want is to understand how he's gotten this way.

He tentatively raises his hand to my face, as if the mere action is a calculated risk. It's the only contact he allows. The pad of his thumb skates along my jawline while his fingertips ghost the nape of my neck. The delicate action contradicts everything he's saying.

"So tell me you don't want me." His eyes simultaneously plead for me to follow his order and beg for me to disobey.

I'm a disoriented battlefield of desires. His mouth is a hair from mine, the electricity crackles between our lips. My body is screaming for me to push forward. It would take so little effort. But as I breathe him in and close my eyes, ready to taste him, I realize that once again he's failed to reveal anything about himself. And there's only so much of myself I can offer without receiving anything in return.

I thought information would keep me cautioned off on the safety of land, but apparently lack of it is just as powerful.

So I open my eyes and steel my resolve, pushing out the words that couldn't be further from the truth. "I don't want you."

I've given him what he wants.

He takes a step back, his features softening as he nods his head. "Good." When he turns to grab his boots and exits my apartment, he finally looks as exhausted as I feel.

* * *

><p><strong>So much for a slow burn...<strong>

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	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the delay in posting this time around. I wasn't feeling well for a good five days and after that, it took me a while to catch up with the rest of my life. Thank you to everyone following, favoriting and reviewing this fic. I've re-read your comments more times than I can count and cherish each one so very much. And to all of you showing support for this thing on twitter, thank you also.**

_**Hope y'all like the chapter.**_

* * *

><p>I toss and turn all night, restless. When I do sleep, I dream of hypnotic azure eyes, hands on my waistline and hot lips pressed against my neck. But every moment fades to black, unlike reality, where moments stretch long after they're finished, leaving you tormented with regret and uncertainty.<p>

It's what I still feel when I hear Damon gracelessly stumble into our apartment around 4am. At least I think he's stumbling. His uneven stomps across the hardwood floors and thumps against tables and furniture certainly support the assumption.

The actions beckon for me to walk out to him and make sure he's okay, or at the very least lay him down on his stomach in case he vomits from the alcohol he's clearly ingested since he left. But I resist. I'm not sure what to say to him and in his drunken stupor, it's unlikely he'd even have a coherent response anyway. So I remain twisted in the sheets of my bed, my favorite worn cotton _Mae_ t-shirt clinging to my irritated skin, and my eyes wide open as they stare into the dark recesses of my room.

The ceiling fan churns from above, and with it so do my thoughts. They're constant and roaring. My body still craves the touch Damon so desperately asked me to deny and for that, I'm furious. It was a stupid lapse in judgment on my part and more than anything, I should be thankful. He'd stopped what would have undoubtedly resulted in a problematic living situation. I mean, he'd already assured me he didn't have faith in love and I'm not one for casual sex. If he'd allowed the situation to escalate, that's all it would have ever been to him and although my heart is not invested, it was sure to have a fracture or two after a physical fusing. There's really little you can do to prevent it.

But even with my streamline of reasoning, I can't shake my disappointment. I'd wanted that fusing. Hell, my body is still vibrating over two hours later. He'd wanted it too. That yearning was stark beneath his translucent plea to retreat. And as much as I hate to admit it, it has me wondering if he released that yearning onto someone else tonight. He's been gone for three hours and it's not hard to find options in New York City, especially when you look like Damon Salvatore.

When the jealousy swings in, I roll onto my side, attempting to shift it away. Damon is not mine. He doesn't want to be mine. And frankly, I'm too sensible to agonize over someone who can't even bring themself to be honest with me about who they really are. Pasts are important, truths are important and until I get either one, I'm finished. It's what I tell myself as I flip my pillow over to the cool side and burrow my head into it, pleading for sleep.

However, just like the noise from the television Damon is watching in the living room, his presence continues to invade the peaceful silence of my mind I so desperately crave.

* * *

><p>I wake early the next morning with a clearer head. And thanks to a soothing session with my trusty vibrator, all thoughts of Damon, almost moments, and heart-thumping aches have ceased. With my body no longer coiled with tension, I step out into the living room, ready to tackle whatever today brings.<p>

Unfortunately that's Damon. And I'm not talking about the Damon I've spent the last two weeks living with. This one is all new. And a mess.

His right hand is resting across the back of my couch sporting gashes along each of his knuckles, his eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with an extra dose of crimson to enhance the effect and one of his shoes is untied – as if he gave the concept of removing them a shot before giving up the effort. Said shoe is pressed against the side of my pristine coffee table, where bits of dirt are either scuffed into the wood or scattered across the surface.

I'm deciding whether I'm more furious or worried when Damon says, "The walls are thin. The next time you choose to set that thing of yours to turbo, you might want to play some background music."

His words come out slightly slurred and from the stale stench of alcohol I'm picking up, it's easy to deduce that he's still drunk. My now empty bottle of whipped cream vodka resting at the base of the couch supports that fact.

Lovely.

I could be embarrassed over the fact that Damon has just listened in on me pleasuring myself, but figure it's not worth the effort. Hell, he may not even remember it when he sobers up later. So I bypass his invitation into our routine back and forth and reply, "Noted."

But as I take a seat next to him on the couch, he twists his beautifully ruined face so I can see the cut on the right side of his upper lip. It's warped into a smirk when he teases, "Did you have fun?"

Not particularly. I'd been pestered with sensations of Damon's soft lips along my collarbone and fingers skimming the insides of my thigh towards my sex as the vibrations sent me to the moon and back. But he doesn't need to know that and besides, my end result had still been achieved.

So I answer, "It was beneficial."

He nods, his eyes lingering closed a fraction of a second too long, before he replies, "Good."

When his head curls back to the television screen so he can watch a mindless commercial, I pry, "How about you? You get into any fun last night?"

"Loads of it."

I've lost his attention. Either that or he's shutting me out. Neither is going to stand with me.

Despite what I'd told myself last night about being finished, I edge closer to him and lift my fingers to his battered hand. The cuts aren't deep, but purple bruises are already beginning to form. Carefully avoiding the tender areas, I skim my fingertips along the calloused skin of his palm and urge, "Damon, c'mon. What happened?"

He pulls his hand from my grip and places it into his lap, not removing his focus from the television. "Nothing you need to worry about."

"But that's the thing," I admit. "I do."

"You shouldn't."

I should start a list of the things I shouldn't do or feel for Damon because it's getting really hard to keep them all straight. I shouldn't care about him. I shouldn't ask him too many personal questions. I shouldn't want him and I shouldn't worry about him. Problem is: I do. And since I can't exactly press certain items on my list, I optimize on the opportunity to smash through this particular item like a wrecking ball.

"Fuck that," I clip, demanding the attention he finally gives me. "Whether you want me to or not, I worry about you. Especially when you come home with your hand smashed to bits and your face swollen." I snatch his bloody hand from his lap and lift it into the air. "Can you even move your fingers? Have you even cleaned your cuts?"

He doesn't dignify me with a response, but he doesn't need to. I already know the answers to my questions.

"I worry about you because someone needs to," I stress, making sure my eyes portray exactly how significant that fact is. The heat of his hand reaches into my skin, igniting my nerves, but I don't drop it. Not even when I stand and order, "Now stop being a baby and let me clean you up."

Damon doesn't say a word as he lifts to his feet and follows me into the bathroom. And as he leans against the granite countertop surrounding the sink, I feel victorious. He may fight me at every turn, but this time I've stood up for myself and damn does it feel good.

I grab the gauze and cleaning alcohol from the cabinet above the toilet and start on his hand first. We don't speak; I just work. Being this close to him after last night isn't easy. My body senses the familiar crave it now associates with Damon, but with the stench of stale booze permeating the air, it's easier to not get wrapped up in my attraction.

"Do you want to tell me what happened now?" I ask softly as I finish up on the last slash along his pinky knuckle.

Damon shrugs. "There's really nothing to tell."

I stop my motions and level him with a glare. In this small of a space, I'm only a foot from his face and impossible to ignore.

Thankfully he understands that. And after a sigh, he admits, "Some asshole pissed me off at the bar so I took a swing. He followed it up with three of his apes. Needless to say, I didn't stand a chance, but I sure as hell gave them a run for their money."

He's wearing a satisfied smirk when I lift the gauze to his mouth and smother it. "You're pleased with yourself." It's not a question; it's an observation. He answers anyway.

"Moderately."

Damon doesn't once wince from the burn of the alcohol as it dives in to cleanse the wound on his lip. It's not surprising. Anyone who gladly enters a fist fight already knows how to handle pain.

However, that notion alone is painful for me.

I'd already prepared myself for the sting of him choosing to sleep with a random bimbo over me, but I hadn't equipped myself for this. This is a different type of pain. It's his. And because I care about him, I share it and am helpless in protecting him against it.

"I was sure you'd gone home with someone, but this…" I say, stopping to shake my head. "This is worse."

Frustrated, I close my eyes, desperately wishing I understood the workings of Damon's mind. He may not have come outright and admitted it, but he'd instigated that fight and for what? It's hard to say since he's given me practically nothing to go on. All of the assumptions I've made have been on my own. I hardly know this man. I mean, I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure.

I wish I did. It would make everything so much _easier_.

When I reopen my eyes, Damon softens his voice and finally looks at me for the first time today. Truly, genuinely looks at me.

"Elena, about last night -"

But I cut him off and divert my eyes from his. "We don't need to talk about it." I know he doesn't want to and I'm done with pushing.

At my words, he cocks his head to the side. "What happened to 'people sometimes have meaningful conversations'?"

"It's in the kitchen getting me a cup of coffee."

"Well drag its ass back in here because I need you to understand something," he stresses. His undamaged hand grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to him. I settle between his spread legs and when I glance up, his eyes are right in front of mine. "You and me, what we have, it's good. And I don't have a lot of good in my life."

I'm beginning to understand that, but…

"You have to see the good in order to appreciate it."

"I do. I see the good in you," he claims, decorating the statement with a small smile. I feel it in my chest. "What you've done for me by opening up your door and trusting me, means everything. No one's ever done something like that for me before. You're the first real friend I've had in my waste of a life and I don't want to fuck that up."

He lifts his hand to capture a few strands of my hair behind my ear before it rests against my cheek. His eyes are heartbreaking, but determined when he declares, "And trust me, if we go any further, I will. It's a nasty habit of mine."

Although his declaration puts a complete halt to any romantic possibility, I finally understand his mindset. It's disappointing, sure, but reasonable. So I push past that letdown and focus on what I did gain: his honesty.

His words are precious gems I eagerly collect. While they're not precise details of his past, they're still details and for that I'm grateful. It's becoming clearer that this man is a mess and not just right now with his bloodshot eyes and bruised skin, but every day. Even the ones where we laugh our way through dinner and peacefully sprawl out on the couch afterwards. But he's my mess now and I'm not letting go - romance or not. I just hope like hell I know what I'm doing.

My eyes don't deviate from his as I lift my hand to cup his and admit, "I don't want to fuck it up either."

"Then let's try really fucking hard not to."

A ghost of a smile plays at his lips, but his voice displays his vulnerability, as if I'm the rope and he's seconds away from being pulled under by the quicksand that is the rest of his life.

I won't let him sink.

"Okay," I breathe.

"Okay," he repeats.

We've settled on an agreement and as I step back and finish cleaning the cut on his lip I decide that I may not have the decadence of ever feeling Damon between my legs, but I have the luxury of calling him my friend. And for him right now, that's more important than anything.

"As your friend, I think you need some sleep. And a shower. You smell like cat piss," I say when the blood has been removed from his face. I toss the stained fabric into the wastebasket and suggest, "But probably sleep first."

"I think you're right." He nods before walking out to the living room and collapsing onto the couch. His head is on my pillow again. Of course.

"What is it with you and the couch?"

"It's familiar." Since his head is smashed into the material, it comes out muffled.

"Care to offer up something less vague?" I pry, making my way over to the kitchen to finally start my much-needed pot of coffee.

"I'd rather sleep," he dismisses. "Maybe another time."

Typical. I roll my eyes and toss the grinds into the top of the coffee maker. "I won't hold my breath."

He doesn't respond this time and when I pour the water into the machine, I'm sure Damon is already passed out. But he surprises me by saying, "Oh, and, Elena?"

"Yeah?"

"I didn't go home with anyone because you're not that easily replaced. You should give yourself more credit."

I glance over towards the couch only to find his eyes still closed and his head still on the pillow. If the words weren't repeating in my head in perfect clarity, I'd assume I'd imagined them. But I hadn't. They'd been Damon's drunken truth and I can't do anything with it now.

Still, as I click the start button on my coffee pot, I'm incapable of fighting off my smile.

* * *

><p>I walk into the apartment a few days later with the three new manuscripts Elijah assigned me clutched against my chest. Damon's hovering over a large pot on the stove and our apartment smells like a combination of an Italian grandmother's kitchen and a pastry shop. It's divine. It's also only one in the afternoon and entirely too early to eat dinner. My tummy growls in opposition, but I'll satisfy it with a piece of cheese or something.<p>

"A little early to start dinner, don't you think?" I state, setting my purse and manuscripts onto the kitchen island.

He doesn't turn around as he counters, "Hasn't anyone ever told you the best things in life take time?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you practically vomit clichés?" I remark, gaining his attention. With his focus, I make a show of shaking my head dramatically and teasing, "Dammit, Damon. Now I have another one to clean off of the floor."

He chuckles at my display, the gash on his upper lip rising with the movement. It's settled to a dull pink, but I'm sure it'll end up a scar just like his knuckles. I figure he has a lot of those. It's why I'm being patient with him and why we've slipped back into our normal routine as friends. All wounds take time to heal and they do so more efficiently without being poked and prodded.

With a wave of his good hand, he orders, "Get your perky little ass over here. I need a fresh mouth to taste this."

With a grin, I do as I'm told. He raises the wooden spoon to my mouth and instead of tasting it, I blow. Slowly. Yeah, I'm pushing him, but I need to get my thrills somehow.

When Damon stretches his lips into a thin line and clears his throat, I bat my eyelashes innocently. "It might be hot."

"Tease."

Figuring I've gotten a decent rise out of him, I sink my lips onto the spoon and pull the red sauce to taste it with my tongue. Damon watches me intently, his breathing uneven - small, hot bursts I shouldn't find satisfying, but shamefully still do.

After a quick swallow, I affirm, "It tastes great."

"Really?" he asks skeptically. "It doesn't need more salt?"

I roll my eyes. "How would I know? The meals I eat come from cardboard boxes and plastic trays."

"Valid point." He reaches over to grab the salt shaker and starts shimmying it into the pot. "It needs to simmer for six hours, but it's worth the wait. Trust me."

I do. He hasn't disappointed me in the kitchen yet and I doubt he's about to start. With my job as taster fulfilled, I step over to the fridge to grab my necessary afternoon snack. As I close the door and raise the slice of cheddar to my mouth, I ask, "I take it you have off today?"

"Yep. It's just you, me and …."

But his words fade as my eyes land on the ballet pink envelope addressed to Ms. Elena Gilbert in elegant script print resting on the island. The return address is one I'm all too familiar with and it has the blood draining from my face. The cheese I just swallowed trails down my throat like a lump of clay.

"Where did this come from?" I ask suddenly, lifting the envelope into the air so Damon can see it.

"Where most of our mail comes from – the mailbox," he answers before turning back around to stir his sauce. "Difficult concept, I know."

"No. I meant when did it come?"

"This morning?" The rise in his pitch at the end makes it a question instead of a statement as his face twists back around and his brows knit. "Is this a trick question?"

I ignore him and hastily open the envelope, pulling out a printed invitation on card stock. Tiny flowers fall out with it. There's a white diamond shape at the middle of the invitation with a mango and blush floral pattern behind it. In beautiful script, it reads:

_With Great Pleasure_

_We Invite You to the Union Of_

_Ms. Miranda Gilbert and Mr. Logan Fell_

The extravagance of the design screams of my mother's taste, making my stomach churn. And what's worse, she's marrying Logan Skumfell. He's an arrogant prick. But of course he's a member of one of the town's founding families – only a pristine member of the elite is suitable for my mother – and he comes with boat loads of old money. I can almost envision her pencil thin lips twisted into a fulfilled smile. This marriage is everything she's ever dreamed for.

"Elena?"

Damon's voice startles me, but I don't lift my eyes to meet his. I'm not sure what he'd see in them.

"Yeah?"

"I asked who it's from."

After a moment's hesitation, I reply, "My mother."

I study the names, hearing the sound of her shrill voice over and over again in my head. It makes me want to crush the paper in my palm, smash it and her invitation to see me to smithereens. She doesn't deserve that luxury and she knows it. I've only kept in contact with her because she's my mother, nothing more.

"What's happening here?"

At Damon's words, I glance up only to notice he's stepped closer, his pot forgotten. His index finger is pointed at my right hand which is currently clutching the invitation and - to my shock - trembling.

Stifling its motions by pressing it against the countertop, I shake my head. "Nothing."

He eyes me thoughtfully. "That didn't look like nothing."

"Well it is," I reply, tossing the invitation a few inches away from me onto the granite countertop like it's laced with anthrax. "It's a wedding invitation and I'm declining. Therefor; it's nothing."

He picks it up, his blue eyes traveling over the paper as he reads the lettering. After only a few seconds, he lowers it back to the counter. "Elena, if you want me to go with you, I can."

"That's not a good idea," I decline instantly.

He shoots me a wicked smirk and quirks a brow. "Because of our almost-fuck session?"

His joke about the other night isn't surprising. We're both adults and are aware of what almost transpired between the two of us. And frankly, it's easier to poke fun at it instead of face it head on. Which we've done. Often.

"No." Although, thinking about that moment makes me realize that yeah, that's a good reason too. Spending a weekend trapped in a tiny hotel room, sharing a single bed with him wouldn't be an easy feat. There's only so much temptation a girl can handle.

At my answer, he leans forward, genuinely intrigued. "Then why?"

Despite the color, his eyes are warm and inviting, tempting me to unload. I've kept my opinions of my mother to myself for years. They've been bottled up, a constant pressure in my mind. And although the concept of sharing their intimacy with another is a little unnerving, I realize the person I'm sharing it with is Damon. If anyone will understand a crippling past, it's him.

"I can't face her," I admit, shaking my head slowly. "I can't even stand the idea of being in the same room as her after everything she's done."

Damon nods, processing my information before he says, "That's why you need to go."

No. That's why I shouldn't go. It doesn't make me weak; it makes me smart. Seeing her would bring me nothing except torment and memories bring enough of that.

"You don't understand. She hit me, Damon. Repeatedly," I stress, doing my best to keep my voice level. I won't let her get an emotional response from me. "The last time I saw her, she broke my wrist. And all because I'd decided I didn't want to live her life anymore."

After years of abuse and playing the role of her perfect daughter, I'd seen the opportunity to escape. So I'd applied to Brown, thankfully been accepted, and packed my bags to place ten hours distance between us. Unfortunately, with that new life came her fury.

The prim and proper façade was exactly that – a façade. When I'd finally mustered up the courage to tell her I was leaving, I'd chosen the wrong location: right at the top of the stairs. After refusing to reject Brown's admission like she demanded, she'd latched onto my arm. I can still feel her manicured nails as they tore into my tender flesh and see her nostrils flaring in anger. It's the last image I have of my mother before her force had me slipping and tumbling down the stairs.

And it's why I place distance between us now. She can never hurt me again this way. Communication is one thing, but face to face is another entirely. She's blood and I'll never cut ties from her completely because thanks to her I'd gotten where I am today. Without my dedication to school, my life would have never skipped rails over to the track I'm on now.

Thankfully, Damon doesn't ask me to elaborate or offer up a generic apology. Instead, he softly declares, "You have every right to be angry."

Despite the blood rushing through my heated veins, I insist, "I'm not angry. She's no longer a part of my life so I have no reason to be angry."

"That's not true. There's a reason you edit people's work and spend hours keeping this apartment spotless." Damon reaches out to claim my hand beneath his, offering the physical support I need after a truth bomb like that. "You strive for perfection, Elena. She's a part of you whether you want her to be or not."

He's right and it makes me feel sick. I'd always assumed I'd left every piece of my mother behind. As I glance around this apartment now, I realize she's everywhere. Even in the damn floral arrangement I bought yesterday that terrifyingly resembles the design of my mother's wedding invite. I have the sudden urge to fling it across the room.

My eyes are widening in horror and my heartbeat is picking up pace when Damon squeezes my hand. My focus lands on him and it's downright ironic that the touch that usually sends my nerves into a frenzy suddenly has the opposite effect when I need it. With the subtle weight of his hand on mine, I feel calmer, safer.

It's when he smiles. "But there's also another part that's all you in spite of her. And I think that's the part you should let the bitch see." His reassurance gives my heart a swift tug before he dips his brows and asks, "Is it offensive for me to call her a bitch? She is still your mother and all."

Despite the near panic attack, I laugh. Even in the most difficult of conversations, Damon still knows how to break my tension. Through it, I say, "No, bitch is fitting." And when the laughter subsides, I'm still smiling.

He returns it, lacing it with fierce determination. "Fine, then don't let the bitch win. Prove you're strength. Show up to this thing and flaunt the life you're living; the one you wanted. Hell, embellish your job a little and bring me along to make her squirm."

"Oh please, she'd swoon at the sight of you."

He lifts his brows as mischief pools into his eyes. "Not if we tell her I've been to jail."

I laugh again, something grand and from the belly, because it's a good idea and I honestly can't believe I hadn't thought of it myself. "You're evil."

He shrugs. "No one's perfect."

"You're also a genius."

"You're right; I'm pretty close to perfect," he retorts, shooting me a wink.

I narrow my eyes playfully. "You're still an ass."

His brows perk in excitement before he lets go of my hand and reaches for the envelope, pulling out a tiny piece of card stock. "You should write that on the response card. Elena Gilbert and Asshole Damon."

He hands me a pen, which I gratefully accept.

"Riling her feathers before the big day - I like it." But as I begin writing our names in blue ink with a malicious leer at the thought of my mother seeing an expletive on her perfect response card, Damon grabs the pen.

"Don't do this for her, Elena. Do it for you," he says in earnest, understanding me all too well. "You shouldn't have to fear her for the rest of your life."

"I don't fear her."

"I believe you." He doesn't, it's evident in the concern I see streaming beneath his lashes. But he's smart enough not to admit it. "But just in case, I won't leave your side at that wedding."

I study the details of his face - the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the sincerity of his sky blue irises - and notice the good he doesn't think exists. It's a shame because he's bursting with it. My focus settles on the tiny pink blemish over his lip and I marvel over how easily this damaged guy can make my wounds bearable. It doesn't seem fair that I've failed so miserably at returning the favor.

When Damon hands me back the pen, I say, "Thanks." I don't need to elaborate on what I'm thanking him for; he knows it's for everything.

* * *

><p>Damon's spaghetti sauce is fucking delicious. Even more so than everything else he's made and I'm practically dancing with glee as I scoop a heap of leftovers into a Tupperware container for my lunch tomorrow.<p>

Since he slaved on the sauce and noodles all day, I figured it was only fair that I clean the dishes. There's not many, but enough to keep me occupied for a good twenty minutes. The task gives me time to unwind, at least that's what I'd assumed. But as I click on my iPod and start the process, I'm too riled up with the taste of scrumptious food and satisfaction of being stronger than my mother to stop the shake of my hips. Seeing her is going to be difficult, I'm sure of it, but with Damon's motivation I feel confident that in showing her my accomplishments, I'll step away from the experience gratified. Despite what she's done, I'm proud of who I've become. And now she's finally going to see it.

As the rhythm of Beyoncé's _Check Up On It_ pounds from my tiny iPod speaker, I pop my booty to the tune, getting lost in my task. Tiny water droplets splash from the sink onto my tank top, but I hardly notice. I'm in the zone, scrubbing and dipping my hips. When Beyoncé sings about being watched as she shakes it and a look of amazement on her admirers face, I twirl around only to see Damon doing precisely that. And yep, the amazement is there too. Along with something dark and possessive.

It makes my thighs clench.

My cheeks blush a deep scarlet as I bring my soapy hands to my mouth and halt my motions. It's when Damon smirks.

"Don't stop on my account," he says smugly, taking two steps forward so he can sit in the middle island chair. With his elbows resting on the countertop, he sets his chin in his hand. "Please. Keep going."

I grind my bottom lip between my teeth and do my best to ignore my shame. "Is it weird that I forgot you lived here for a second?"

He tosses his head back in laughter and opens his mouth to reply when a knock sounds at the door. I lift up my soapy hands as an excuse, which he accepts with a nod. It only takes him six steps to reach the door and swing it open, but as soon as he does his body straightens as if a metal pipe just replaced his spine.

My eyes narrow at his rigid stance and although I can't see or hear who's on the other side of the door, I can hear Damon's responses.

"What are you doing here?"

"No."

"What the hell are you thinking?"

"Not a fucking chance."

When my patience has reached its limit, I shout out, "Who is it?"

He turns around and clips, "No one."

What the hell?

Curiosity claws at my mind when I wipe my hands on the dishtowel and step towards the door. He's holding it so it's nearly closed; only a sliver of space is keeping it open. I still don't have a sightline of who's on the other side and now anxiety is crashing in.

"Damon?" I ask softly, lifting my hand to his shoulder.

He tenses at the contact before shutting the door and twisting around. He's shielding me from whoever is on the other side and now I'm not only anxious, I'm worried.

"Who is it?" I repeat, ready for an honest answer.

He rakes a shaky hand through his hair. With a groan, he closes his eyes, but not quickly enough for me to miss the panic glaring from them. Then he answers, "My baggage."

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><p><em><strong>Please Read &amp; Review. :)<strong>_

_**I'm on twitter and tumblr: morvamp**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Not gonna lie, this chapter kicked my ass. Actually, Damon kicked my ass. I wrote this thing three different times because when I read it back to myself the first time, Damon was too sensitive. The second time, he was too easygoing. I think I've found a happy medium with this version, but heck, I'm still not sure. So I'm eagerly waiting to hear what you all think. *bites fingernails***

_**Hopefully you like it.**_

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><p>Damon's chest is expanding and contracting with each deep breath he takes. His head won't stop shaking back and forth and he's basically sweating beads of anxiety. With his eyes closed, he groans, "Fuck me."<p>

My body whispers _'Gladly'_, but since his fingers are pulling at the roots of his hair in distress, I know he's not speaking literally.

When he lowers his hand and opens his eyes, they're firm, his demeanor controlled. Somehow his hair still looks sexy as hell. "Go to your room and shut the door."

Yeah. Like's that's going to happen.

I shake my head dismissively. "I already broke free from a mother who wanted to control me and I'm not subjecting myself to that again. So stop trying to be a substitute."

"I'm not controlling you;" he snarls in a whisper, taking a step forward. "I'm protecting you."

The control from a second ago has slipped and the panic is back in full force. It has my brows furrowing. "From what?"

"I'm growing impatient," a feminine voice from the other side of the door calls out.

My eyes widen at the sound of a woman and my nose scrunches in distaste. I have no clue who the hell this chick is, but if Damon's on high-alert under the threat of her presence, I already grasp she's bad news. Still, bad news or not, she's just a chick. How much harm can she cause?

"You're protecting me from her?" I ask incredulously.

"She's more lethal than you think," he warns.

"Fine. If she is, I'll deal with it. I'm not going anywhere and I sure as hell am not leaving you alone if that girl is from your past," I claim, defiantly crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm you're first so I get that you don't know how this works, but I'm your friend, Damon, and friends back each other up."

Instead of appreciating my support, Damon's eyes narrow defensively. "I don't need you to fight my battles."

"I know that, but at least let me stand behind you as you fight your own."

His expression softens at my words and appreciation unfurls in the sea of his eyes. It dawns on me then how significant my backing might truly mean to him.

"I've been pretty courteous up until this point, but I'm five seconds away from picking the lock and letting myself in," the female voice yells. It's getting angrier as her patience dwindles.

Damon quickly glances towards the door and then back at me. "You're going to hear things about me that you're not gonna like." He's nervous and this time I'm unsure if it's because of the things I'm about to learn or the person who's about to disclose the information.

However, if he thinks that's going to have me retreating, he's in for a shock. I know he's done things and I know the man standing before me probably differs from the version this other chick knows, but no matter what she reveals, my opinion won't sway.

I'm ready for the door to open and along with it, Damon's door.

"I'm still not going anywhere," I declare.

He nods and turns to open the door, but as his hand lands on the handle, he twists back around. "Don't take offense to anything I say." I'm not given the opportunity to respond before he curves the handle and a woman emerges through the entryway.

It's the moment my heart sinks, because, damn, she's stunning. Ribbons of midnight hair twist down and around her olive face, stopping at the brim of her ass. Her chocolate eyes are coated beneath an excessive amount of smoky shadow and eye-liner, but she somehow avoids looking superficial. There's a red kiss mark on her tattered white t-shirt exposing her thin waist and belly button ring; her ripped black jeans fit her like a fucking glove. And the leather jacket she's wearing, well, it only accentuates the whole rock vibe she has going on.

Seriously, she's a walking innuendo for sex, straight off of the cover of a magazine. The girl even puts Caroline to shame.

She sashays her way into the apartment – yes, actually sashays – and with the help of her red pumps, I'm sure her ass looks phenomenal. That's confirmed when she twists back around to Damon and asks, "It didn't take you long to replace me, did it?"

I instantly place her as Damon's ex- roommate - the one who got attached. I can recognize the yearning in her eyes as they trail over his chest and down towards his crotch. Then again, she's not trying very hard to conceal it.

The heart is a fragile thing and despite my best attempts at maintaining a strict emotional detachment from Damon, a fissure forms in mine at the chip of her voice, letting me know how monstrously I've failed. I'm not one for feeling inferior, but with her standing only a few feet away from me, the inferiority is punching hard.

That fissure cracks even further when Damon brushes me off and claims, "She hasn't replaced you. She's just my roommate." The detachment in his voice resonates through my head, a speaker I can't switch off.

"But you want her to be more," rock chick says, turning around to study me. As she does, I finally have a chance to look at Damon. To my relief, he's glaring at the back of this girl like she's second hand smoke. It's all disgust and no longing. It's then I remember his order before he opened the door: _Don't take offense to anything I say._ I repeat those words over and over like a melody as Damon's jaw works under his skin. His eyes don't once glance in my direction, which I'm almost thankful for. There's enough rage firing from them to char grill an entire city.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, sounding bored.

But she waves him off with the flick of her hand and starts walking towards me. "We'll get to that in a few. Right now I want to play with your pet a little longer."

"Dammit, Kat," he sneers, reaching for her arm to twist her back towards him and away from me.

"It's Katherine, Damon. Only my partners have the luxury of calling me Kat." Her eyes are narrowed towards Damon, but when she curls back towards me, her expression stretches into a malicious grin. "He sure _is_ great in the sack, isn't he?"

It's like we're sharing an inside joke, but the miserable part is that I'm not in on it. Somehow both my hatred for this chick and my longing for Damon reach astronomical levels.

When I don't dignify her with a response, Katherine shrugs and steps directly in front of me. Her feline eyes work their way over my face and down my baby blue tank to settle on my cotton shorts. When she's had her visual fill, she cocks her head to the side. "She's pretty, a little more innocent than the ones you usually go for, but still pretty."

She reaches up to twist a few strands of my hair when I've finally had enough. Sure, this is Damon's battle and I'll let him fight it, but I won't stand idly by and let this bitch treat me like a mannequin.

"Get your hands off of me." My fingers latch onto her wrist, constricting until I'm sure it's painful before I toss her hand back.

But Katherine just giggles at my action, a twinkle of amusement shines from her eyes. "And feisty," she muses, glancing back at Damon. "Now I get why she's caught your eye."

"You're boring me, Kat," Damon mutters, using the abbreviation she'd just demanded he didn't. I suppress my smile. "Now leave her alone. You came here to talk to me so let's get on with it."

"But now my feelings are hurt," she pouts dramatically. "Remember what happened to the last girl you took an interest in - what was her name? Andrea? Amber? Andie?" She swipes her hand through the air as though the name's not important and challenges, "Do you really want to make that same mistake again?"

"I told you she's nothing," he counters, finally leaving his place near the door and stepping closer to us. If he's nervous, he's doing a fantastic job of hiding it.

"And I told you I'm not buying it."

"He's speaking the truth," I interject. I have no clue what happened to any of the A names, but I'm not about to let the same thing happen to me. Supporting Damon's disinterest in me is the only way I can ensure that. "So why don't you get on with whatever you came here to do and leave us the hell alone."

Katherine whirls around so she's inches from my face, rage present in the locked set of her jaw. "I've snapped twigs bigger than you, bitch."

Hatred fumes inside of me, but before I'm given a chance to fire something back, Damon orders, "Back off, Katherine." There's dominance in his voice that's both terrifying and enthralling. It has Katherine stepping back.

"Fine," she yields, "but only because I like her spunk. Maybe I'll even recruit her."

"You won't," he says, bating her threat away with the same ease he'd use to slap a fly. "Now just spill."

Katherine rolls her eyes, but finally steps over to take a seat in the middle island chair. Comfortably crossing one leg over the other, she states, "Enzo's looking for you."

"I figured as much." Damon remains standing instead of sitting next to her. I'm oddly comforted by that choice. "And how did he find me?"

"He didn't. I had Slater run a trace on your cell."

"You have a cell phone?" It's a stupid question, I know this as soon as it flies from my mouth, but I haven't once seen him use the thing since he moved in.

"Told you we're not close," Damon chimes, otherwise ignoring me. "How? It's been turned off and I chucked the battery."

"You know Slater. He has his ways," Katherine explains with a quick flip of her hand. Thing is: I _don't_ know Slater so this explains nothing to me. But by the confirmatory nod, its clear Damon understands.

"Why is Enzo looking for me?"

"The same reason he always comes for you – he has a job for you."

"So why are you here then and not him?"

At that, Katherine leans forward, the corner of her lips lifting into a smirk as she purrs, "Because I missed you, of course. We used to have so much fun together."

I push down the swell of hatred that starts to consume me at the thought of this bitch and the fun she's insinuating when Damon declares, "I'm not going back."

"It's not an option, Damon," she challenges. "Once we sign on for this, we're his for life."

I'm still trying to get a handle on the whole _his for life_ section of her sentence when Damon's temper finally gets the best of him. "And I'm saying I'm in charge of my own life."

His composure slips and I finally see a reflection of my own fury in the steel blue of his eyes as he steps in front of Katherine. "So you have three options here: A. You walk your ass back out that door and pretend you couldn't find me. B: You walk your ass back out that door and tell Enzo exactly where I am, therefor putting you at the very top of my shit list. You and I both know that's not where you want to be. Or C: You stay and I release Elena on you. Considering you've tracked mud halfway through her apartment, I'm not liking your odds with that one."

I'm simultaneously cheering Damon on in my head for being a badass and sweeping my eyes over my floors. It's the first time I've been too invested in something to actually notice a mess, but he's right. Dirt footprints form a winding path from the entryway to the stool Katherine is now seated on and I want nothing more than to wrap my fingers around her neck and squeeze. Hard.

Her eyes are narrowed as they flicker between Damon and me. She's thinking, the wheels in her head rotating as she formulates her best response. And to my shock, her face softens when she settles on it. With a level voice, she says, "Despite running out on me in the middle of the night, I still have a shred of compassion left for you. So let me be honest here, I won't tell him where you are and I'll make sure Slater keeps his mouth shut, but you can't hide from Enzo forever. He has too many eyes. My best advice: run. Run as far away from this city as you can so he can't find you. If he does, you're not the only one who's going to deal with the repercussions."

She stands, shifting her eyes onto me. "And honey, he's not worth it. I've seen him beat men to the edge of their lives without blinking an eye. He's shattered spines, dislocated shoulders, fired guns and splattered blood, all under the order of someone else. He doesn't have a heart; you may think he does, but not anymore. I can guarantee he'll break yours. It's almost as easy to him as breaking bones."

Her words are heavy boulders, each crashing down and leveling me a bit more as they come in fierce succession. I look at Damon, silently begging him to refute any of her horrible accusations, but his eyes are downcast. His refusal to face me is enough proof that she's speaking the truth. He's ashamed of his past and now I know why.

I hone my eyes back onto Katherine and ask, "Are you done?"

She shrugs indifferently, as though she didn't just verbally slap both of us across the face. "Yep. I'll leave now." She's wearing a malevolent grin as she heads towards the door to open it. As she does, she reaches into the hallway and picks up a black leather jacket before tossing it to Damon.

"You left this at my place. Thought you might like it back." It's the last words she speaks before she slips through the door.

The silence in our apartment afterwards is deafening. Damon won't look at me, not even when he finally stirs to throw his jacket across the room. The sudden action makes my body tense, but I otherwise stay where I am. To be honest, I'm afraid to get any closer.

"You can't say I didn't warn you." His words are low, alarming. I hate the pressure that's settled in this room and with a quick swallow, I attempt to deflate it.

"She wasn't so bad."

But Damon glares at me. We both know he isn't referring to Katherine, just her words. And yeah, he's not an ideal citizen, but I already knew this. His past is still a vast plane littered with holes and I'm not about to fall through one of them into a judgmental pit until I have the whole story.

"You ready to be honest with me now?" I keep my voice soft and nonthreatening.

"I don't have a choice now, do I?" he scoffs, before heading down the hallway.

I follow. "Not really. So who's Enzo?"

"That's your first question?" he asks, incredulous, spinning around so I nearly smash into his chest. His face rests a centimeter from mine and even in the shadows of the hallway, his eyes are a vivid tint of blue. "You don't want to know why I beat the shit out of people?"

Of course I do, but I'm going to be tactful about it.

"I'm easing in. For now we'll stick with Enzo."

Damon rolls his eyes before he spins around and walks into his room. "He's a big player in the city's crime scene."

As he reaches under his bed and grabs his duffel, I linger in his doorway, processing his information. So Damon was involved in NYC's crime world. Not entirely unexpected, but definitely not great.

When he tosses three shirts into his bag, I take a step into the room and ask, "What are you doing?"

"Packing."

Wait. What? I think my heart just stopped for a quick second. "You're leaving?"

"Did you not hear a word Kat said?" he exclaims, shoving a pair of dark jeans into the bag. "Me being here puts you in danger."

Yeah, I got that and I should probably be relieved I don't have to kick Damon out myself, but I'm not. Katherine just threw a lot of information my way without giving me ample time to process it. All I know for sure right now is that Damon worked for some guy named Enzo who is apparently some big crime lord and that he needs to run. I don't see why and I definitely don't see my roommate as the threat his ex explained him to be.

I step towards Damon and wrap my fingers around his bicep, feeling it tense at the contact. When his face curls around and his eyes land on mine, I plead, "Just stop for a second and tell me what the hell is going on."

He pauses momentarily, glancing between my fingers and my face before he says, "I'll explain while I pack."

It's not ideal, but for the sake of getting the information I need, I let him go. He continues his motions, frantically sweeping through his room to gather the few items he owns while I take a seat on the bed. It still dons my coral comforter.

"How did you start working for Enzo?"

"He offered me a place to stay when I was fifteen," Damon explains. He's focused on his task instead of me, which I'm assuming makes it easier for him. "Since I didn't have any other options, I took it, but it came with obligations. I had to be one of his dogs, do his dirty work. If he needed a car stolen or stripped, I did it. If he needed me to enforce drug loan deadlines, I did it. If he needed me to scare the hell out of someone, I did it."

"Which explains the beatings," I muse softly.

Damon nods before he walks out the door and into the bathroom, claiming, "I was good at it. Too good. Hell, I even enjoyed it." That settles uncomfortably in my gut before he adds, "It's why he's looking for me. Someone's pissed him off."

I don't want to ask him this, but I'm incapable of resisting. "Did you enjoy it the other night?"

"I was drunk."

Threading my fingers through my hair, I massage my scalp and press on. "Answer the question."

With his arms loaded with toiletries, Damon steps back into the room. He wavers just inside of the doorway for a second, before he finally admits, "It released certain frustrations, yes. But no, not the way I once did."

Relief crashes through me like a tidal wave.

"I was a stupid kid that didn't know what the hell I doing back then," he says, dropping his stuff on the floor and taking a seat next to it. "After bouncing from one foster home to the next, I ended up living in whatever abandoned building was available before the cops kicked me out. Enzo found me; he gave me a solid roof over my head and food on the table, and for the first time it felt like I had someone looking out for me. But he wasn't doing it for me and back then I was too stupid to realize that. He took me in so he could use me."

His eyes are downcast, the weight of his past heavy on his shoulder, before his eyes flick up to mine. "You see, because he got me so young, my loyalty to him is stronger than he could ever get from someone he hired. He knew I wouldn't betray him."

Desperation is a powerful motivator and it seems Enzo found that in Damon. He was just a kid doing his best to survive and Enzo manipulated him. After his dad's dismissal, I can only imagine how appreciative Damon was to finally have someone caring about him, only to uncover it was all a beneficial game. It makes my heart ache.

"But I've been doing this for 14 years, Elena. I've jumped from different houses of members in the organization and I've been paid to do what other people don't have the guts to do. I'm not a kid anymore and now that I'm aware of what I am, I'm tired of doing it for a man that could give two shits about me."

It's still hard to imagine the Damon I've come to know hurting someone for the sake of following another's orders. And yeah, the idea is a little frightening, but I understand why he did it. He'd wanted acceptance and someone had finally given it to him. He was simply paying back Enzo's compassion with blind loyalty. But I need to know if that's the only reason.

"If you weren't tired, would you still want to?"

"No. Maybe." Damon stops to rake a shaky hand through his midnight hair in frustration. "Fuck, I don't know."

When his eyes apologetically link with mine, I silently plead for him to be honest. He reads me perfectly.

With a sigh, he admits, "It paid well and it was easy, but nothing was real. Your friends weren't actually friends, your place wasn't permanent, and your word meant nothing. Everyone is out for themselves, ready to shoot you in the back if it means their paycheck is bigger. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder and I'm tired of being used as a weapon. That has to count for something, right?"

His eyes are hopeful, but I can't placate him after an answer like that. So I move on to my next question.

"How does Katherine come into this?"

Realizing my empathy is starting to shift, he goes back to packing his things. "She was the last place I stayed. She's smart and knows what she's doing. And despite always looking out for herself, she also started to look out for me. So I repaid her the only way I knew how."

With sex. Despite what I'm learning about Damon and the negative light he's now casted under, I still don't like the image of that bitch tangled up with him. I fight back my grimace and ask my next question – the one that can apparently involve me in the future.

"And Amber or Andie or whatever the girl's name was?"

"I got bored with Kat and was ready to move on. I thought I was discreet about my involvement with Andie, but Kat proved me wrong." His voice shits to reveal his resentment when he says, "What makes it worse is that I didn't feel a damn thing for Andie, she was just something different, but Kat sent her to the hospital with three broken ribs anyway to prove a point."

My eyes widen in shock at his confession. I'd been feet away from a brutal bitch with a mean jealousy tick and I'd even had the audacity to snap at her. From what Damon's insisting, I'm lucky to still be moving. I'm internally reeling over that development when Damon continues, "It's when I knew I didn't want this life anymore – for me or anyone else involved. It's alright for me to get hurt, but not other people. So I bailed, left most of my belongings behind along with my cushion of blood money. I ran into you the very next night."

I'm comforted by the fact that Damon saw the light and realized that the choices he was making were the wrong ones. It's the statement I've been waiting to hear him say – the one that holds a tiny form of regret. I also find it respectable that he didn't keep any of the money he earned during the past 14 years. It showcases that he really does understand how despicable the way he earned it was. Maybe he actually _is_ the Damon I've come to know him as and not the one Katherine believes him to be.

Still, there's one last bit of honesty I need from him.

"So your story about sleeping with your boss' girlfriend and getting fired?"

"Still true," he declares with a nod. "It was a side-job. A sense of normalcy."

I'm certain there's nothing normal about Damon. Actually, I'm pretty damn sure I've known this all along.

With all of his personal belongings now in his duffel, he zips it up and says softly, "I stole your purse because I needed a fresh start and I didn't know what else to do. Stealing is what I'm good at and I figured that if I just did it the one time, it didn't mean anything. Then, miraculously, I showed up at your door and until today, I thought you and this apartment were my fresh start."

He stands up and slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder and it dawns on me that this is really happening. He's leaving.

After everything I've learned in the past few minutes, I should see Damon differently, and in a way, I do. But I don't see him negatively like the average person would. I see him as the person he is now, the one who chose to be better. Maybe it took him too long to figure that out and maybe a part of him still longs for the ease at which the money flowed so swiftly into his pocket, but I don't care.

Details hold little weight when you think with your heart instead of your head, which is clearly what's controlling my mouth when I insist, "I still can be."

"Not with Enzo looking for me," he disputes, shaking his head. "I trust Kat to keep her mouth shut, but Enzo's network of people is too extensive. She's right; he'll find me eventually."

"So what if he does and you refuse?" We live in a society where people are supposed to be free. Sure, Damon's previous employer – is that even the appropriate title for Enzo? – may have created a different world than the rest of us live in, but choice has to still be an option. Right?

But Damon dips his lips into a frown. "He does anything in his power to get me back. That includes hurting you." He steps over towards the bed and bends his legs so he's at my level. "I can't have attachments, Elena, and you shouldn't want to be one now that you know the truth."

He's probably right, but I'm uncovering that when it comes to Damon, I'm incapable of resisting the things I shouldn't do and feel.

"I'm not scared."

He lifts his hand to cup my cheek, his fingers ghosting the delicate skin with practiced care. It feels like goodbye. Concern glistens in his eyes when he says, "You should be."

I watch as he stands and walks down the hallway, before throwing myself from the bed. "Who am I going to get to pay the other half of my rent if you leave?"

He doesn't turn to look at me as he picks up his leather jacket from the floor and replies, "It's New York. There's a line of people waiting to live in a place like this."

"Not ones willing to take me to my mother's wedding," I counter. It's a low blow, I know, but desperate times call for desperate measures. "I've RSVP'd now. There's no backing out." If he sees how much I need him to stay, maybe he'll stop trying to protect me and do just that.

"Dammit, stop making this harder," he bites out, reaching his hand around to scratch the back of his neck. He's pissed at me now, but the emotion evaporates almost instantly when he looks at me. "If you think leaving is easy for me, you're wrong."

"Then stay," I plead, seeing my chance and diving in. "Toss the rest of your cell phone into a random dumpster so you can't be traced and stay."

"I'm not pulling you into this shit," he adamantly declares. "I'm running from it for a reason."

"And thankfully you've run in a place that's home to 8 million people," I point out. "I don't care what type of man power this Enzo guy has; your odds are pretty good."

He rolls his eyes at my reasoning, but I know he can't refute it. My point is valid whether he wants to admit it or not.

With wide eyes, he asks, "Why the hell would you even want someone like me sticking around?"

At that, I smile and saunter my way across the room towards him. Victory is just beyond my reach and I'm seconds away from snatching it. "Because despite what you think, I don't see the same guy you're describing. You're warm and funny and you make my apartment a whole hell of a lot better. Scratch that, you make my life a whole hell of a lot better."

He shakes his head in opposition, biting back a skeptical laugh. "There's no way in hell that's true."

"It is," I insist, holding up my fingers so I can visually count for him. "I'll eventually get a better job because of you, I'm facing my mother because of you, I laugh more because of you, and I don't spend every waking minute with my nose in a boring manuscript because of you. Hell, I even eat better because of you."

"I just push your boundaries, Elena. Any roommate can do that."

"Not ones I can stand to be around afterwards." He chuckles softly, his chest rising and falling with the motion. It's the opening I take to inch closer so he can really hear me. "You say you see the good in me? Well I still see the good in you."

"Buried under the massive heap of bodies I've sent to the hospital," he remarks.

He may not realize it, but anyone is worthy of redemption, even those who don't consider themselves to be.

So I order, "Stop carrying your mistakes around like weights. Set them down. You'll feel a whole lot better when you realize they're detachable."

"That's good," he mocks, flipping his brows. "Did you read it in one of your manuscripts?"

"Maybe," I tease, twisting the top of my foot into the hardwood. I notice his left one is lingering a few inches above the floor, debating whether to step backwards or not.

"Look," he starts, doing his best to remain serious when I'm desperately trying to ease us out of it, "I get what you're doing, but some mistakes are easier to detach than others."

"Yeah, I get it. You've done some really shitty things and you're a terrible person," I drone with a roll of my eyes before I hit him with some logic. "But like you said, you were a kid when it all started."

"And my excuse for the past couple of years?"

"You're an asshole," I say, sporting the upward twist of my smile.

He tries really hard to fight it, the sides of his lips quivering, but eventually his eyes pull them up to match the smile on my face.

"I'm giving you the option to start your life over here," I say in earnest. "Take it."

His brows furrow as he stares back me, his gaze steady and unwavering. "You really aren't afraid of me after hearing what I've done?"

Hell yeah I'm afraid of him, but not because of the reason he thinks. I'm terrified that after only a couple of weeks I can't stand the idea of him leaving my apartment. And then there's the whole breaking hearts thing Katherine referenced.

"No."

"I've hurt people. Lots of them."

Guilt is a powerful thing. It can scrape old wounds, keeping them fresh. It can take you out at the knees. It can cripple a future and the potential of anything good. It can also be healthy when wielded correctly. I just need to make Damon realize that.

I reach for his hand, interlocking his fingers with mine and will him to understand me. "I know, but we all have pasts. It doesn't define who you are now. The choices you make now do." I shrug as though my next statement is so easy to follow through on. "Just make the right ones."

His head cocks to the side and his voice comes out as a desperate whisper, "And what are the right ones?"

"Not hitting people is one." My fingers slip up his arm and latch around the strap of his duffel bag so I can tug it down his arm. It drops to the floor. Next comes the coat. "Staying is also one."

"You're an idiot if you think that's a right one." Despite his opposition, he doesn't reach for his belongings.

"Maybe," I agree, tilting my head so I'm glancing into the endless depths of his eyes. They're vast enough to pull the vulnerable truth right from my throat. "But if it's a wrong one, I want you to choose it anyway." My hand lifts to his face; the warmth flows through my fingers and makes me bold. "Because I honestly don't know what I would do if you weren't here anymore."

His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't say a word. His chest rises and falls in silence, in and out, as he searches my face for doubt. He won't find it, of that I'm sure. My hand is still on his cheek, unwilling to break the contact. It's when I see it – the wonder drifting over his face. His breath on my mouth is hot and when he runs his pink tongue along his bottom lip, my eyes drift momentarily down to the action. It's the only distraction he needs to take his opportunity.

Damon lowers his chin so his lips can sink down on mine. And, fuck me, they're soft. They're also moist and delectable as his hands land on my waist. I can feel the fire of his fingertips skimming the top of my shorts, making me burn with desire. The action catches me by surprise, but I've waited weeks to have his lips on mine and now that they are, I don't pull back. I kiss him like he's my last drop of water and I'm stranded in the desert.

Fueled by my intensity, his fingers grip my hips, pulling me into him. We're seamless where it matters and shit, does he feel good. He parts my lips with his tongue and as he slips into my mouth, my other hand also extends to his face so I can hold him tight. Heat settles low in my belly, goose bumps pebble my flesh. He takes like chocolate and trouble and somewhere in the back of my mind I know I shouldn't be doing this. He might be leaving immediately afterwards and I'll never recover from the loss of him after this.

But then his palms push into my back. They're splayed low, his fingertips grazing the top of my butt, inching further south with each second. I wonder how many more it will take for him to cup my ass like he clearly wants and lift me so I adhere around his waist. His tongue flicks against mine, once, twice, and suddenly, all thoughts cease. I'm gone. My head is under water this time; I'm submerged.

It's when he pulls his lips from mine, taking all of the air from my lungs with him. His eyes are dark, his smirk in position as he runs his thumb over his bottom lip. The action seems so effortless compared to the struggle I'm enduring just to stay upright on my own two feet. Seriously, I might be wobbling.

"What was that?" I ask, still tasting him on my lips. I want to lick them dry.

"A thank you," he says. "For thinking I'm better than I am and for wanting me to stay." He bends down to pick up his belongings before he shrugs. "Plus, I couldn't resist."

I acknowledge that Damon probably hasn't heard someone insist he's good. It's kind of hard when you're constantly either being discarded from a family or exploited for your nasty talent of harming others. But damn, that was one hell of a thank you. In my clouded mind, thoughts like _you're welcome_ and _you should thank me again_ swirl around like a crazed twister, but thankfully I keep my poise and raise a brow. "Was that a goodbye thank you or a general one?"

He takes a deep breath and rubs the line of his jaw. "I shouldn't, but you make me want to do stupid shit, Elena." The feeling is mutual. "So I'll stay for as long as I'm wanted."

"You'll be here for a while."

An amused smile twists the left corner of his mouth. "We'll see." He extends the strap of his bag over his shoulder and steps past me to the hallway, making a point to bump my arm as he goes. "But if I'm staying, we need to get you a gun for this place."

* * *

><p><strong>I promise this isn't going to be a crime drama. I'll admit, I don't have an outline for this story because the chapters never fail to change as I write anyway and outlining for me ends up being pointless. But I do know that crime romances aren't my thing. There may be instances where that comes into play, but it won't be the forefront of this fic.<strong>

_**Please Read & Review. :)**_

_**I'm on Twitter and Tumblr: morvamp**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Once again, I want to start off by saying how much I love you guys. I do. I really, really do. Thank you for reading, following, favoriting, tweeting and reviewing this fic of mine. Each and every word you guys leave me boosts my writing confidence immensely and I cannot express my gratitude enough. You're wonderful!**

**This chapter is crazy long, but I figured you wouldn't mind. ;)**

* * *

><p>I am sexually frustrated.<p>

Consider me a shaken bottle of _Coca-Damn_-_Cola_. A few more jiggles of the wrist and my cap is going to blow. And I'm talking _Mentos_ addition blow.

Since Enzo and Katherine have both _(thankfully)_ failed to make an appearance at my apartment or Damon's life and I still have yet to receive a single reply email to my job inquiries, this is the trivial issue I've been given to focus on.

It's been a week and a half since Damon took it upon himself to kiss me in our apartment. It's also been a week and a half of him acting like it never happened. I get that this may be normal behavior for some people, but not me. I'm more of a kiss and talk about why it happened kind of girl. I like answers; I like explanations and despite Damon finally offering me some while leading up to the kiss, he's back to his old ways of refusing those things.

Then again, I haven't exactly come out and asked him about it either. It's an embarrassing question to ask: _'Hey, despite everything you have insisted, do you have feelings bubbling for me like I do for you'._ Yeah, not exactly tactful. And besides, there's still the ever persistent dread that I most likely won't like his answer when he gives it. He hasn't been discreet about his perception of love nor has he been discreet about his desire to remain strictly friends.

I finally understand the reasons behind the latter and support it. Doesn't mean I'm not still experiencing aftershocks from that blistering kiss.

Damn him and his remarkably talented lips.

On top of this, Elijah has been giving me an endless amount of new material; all of them in the Adult Romance genre. Normally this isn't a problem, but not when I have a living, breathing male protagonist sitting a foot away from me on the couch every night. While all of the females in these potential books are getting their needs satisfied, I'm still doing my best to replicate that ultimate high with my trusty vibrator. It does the trick, of course it does, but a girl needs a little human contact once in a while. And I'm not talking about the platonic touching I'm getting with Damon. I'm talking about the blending of sweat drenched bodies, trembling thighs, and, well, you get the idea.

I need to get laid. And I need to get laid tonight.

With only ten minutes remaining in my work day, Elijah buzzes my phone, asking me to come to his office. I release a frustrated sigh and head over, taking hasty steps. It's Friday and I'm ready to be out of this hell hole.

"Elena," Elijah beams as I appear in his doorway, "please take a seat."

Not like I wasn't going to anyway.

I do as instructed, crossing my left leg over my right. His chipper attitude already has my warning signs glaring and I know I'm seconds away from being asked to do him a favor.

"I hope you don't have significant plans this weekend."

Like I said. The man is nothing but consistent. And although I have legendary plans of cleaning my apartment and somehow getting laid tonight, he's not actually asking the question. I'm already expected to say no.

"No, sir."

"Splendid," he says; the grin he wears exposes his set of pearly white veneers. I swear, everything about this man screams money. He pushes a giant stack of paper across his desk. "I have two manuscripts I need you to look over this weekend, but this one by Hayley Marshall needs your utmost attention. It's required on my desk first thing Monday morning."

From past experience I'm certain Elijah is screwing this Hayley chick. He goes through cycles, always offering his latest interest the heavily desired promise of fame and fortune. She's just unlucky enough to be his latest partner while I'm unlucky enough to be the one forced to read another heaving pile of crap. Because that's what these 'lover' manuscripts always seem to be – C.R.A.P. I pretend to be ignorant to this fact and the inkling notion that there's probably a very specific reason why these ladies need incentives to stay with him. If you can't read my mind, I'll give you a hint: it has to do with his performance.

"Can't wait to read them," I say, giving him my widest forced smile. My cheeks hurt. I stand up to pick up the manuscripts and with a wink, I slap on the kiss ass. "And I'll give this one extra attention."

Elijah nods as the papers settle against my chest. "Thank you. I promise you'll be rewarded for your efforts."

It's a lie. It always is. But once again, I pretend to be ignorant to that fact.

"Thank you, sir. Have a wonderful weekend."

"You too," he offers, like he actually means it. His eyes don't spare me another glance before they return to his computer screen and I see myself out.

As I head back to my cubicle, I glance down at the top manuscript in my hands only to notice the title: _Matters of the Heart _by Hayley Marshall_. _Cliché and unoriginal. Figures. It also has the hot pink post it attached to its upper right corner signifying it's yet another goddamn New Adult Romance. Yeah, there's no way in hell I'm reading through this thing without getting some action first.

Stifling my growl, I throw the manuscripts onto my desk and pull my cell from my purse. Bonnie called in sick today so asking her to set me up with another one of Jeremy's guy friends isn't an option. That leaves Caroline.

She picks up on the second ring.

"Hello lover."

Ignoring her pleasantries, I get down to business. "Please tell me you're not working tonight."

"Unfortunately I am. Why? What's up?"

"I need to get laid." Matt's head pops up from his cubicle, but I glare at him before shooing him away with my hand.

"I support this completely," she replies enthusiastically. My girl is a full advocate of the one night stand and despite countless attempts at wrangling me into the scene, I've denied every offer. Me saying this statement is her dream come true. "My shift starts at seven so head over here and we'll find your Ryan Gosling stand in."

* * *

><p>I spend the afternoon resending my resume' to the publishing companies I never heard back from – just in case there was a malfunction with my outbox the first time around – and reading my first manuscript. It's a sci-fi thriller, which seemed like a much better option than enduring Hayley's romance with Damon only five feet away from me on the couch. We don't speak much, but not because it's awkward. Since the kiss, Damon has been his typical chipper self and I've imitated the perfect roommate. You know, the one who doesn't care that she was spontaneously kissed.<p>

I say goodbye when he leaves for work at four and after another two hours of editing, I head for the shower. Forty five minutes later, I've done my make-up, amped up my hair and tugged myself into my red sheath dress. The sweetheart neckline plunges dangerously low and the tight fitting fabric ends just below my butt. It's not my standard style and I may have troubling sitting in it, but the goal is to have someone remove it, not keep the thing on. With a final appraising look in the mirror, I stroll out the door in my red stilettos, ready to paint this city red.

* * *

><p><em>The Lakehouse<em> on Friday nights is you standard cesspool of desperate singles. Each one looking for exactly the same thing I am. Although I look the part, as I make my way through the sea of people and over to the bar, I feel a bit like a fish out of water. I've never been one for shameless flirting and I've absolutely never been one for initiating an evening of mindless sex. I feel more uncomfortable with every step I take, but by the way I'm being ogled, it doesn't show. Thank goodness.

"Holy shit," Caroline squeals when I take a seat at one of the barstools. She's pouring beer into a tall frosted glass from the tap as her eyes take in my knock-em-dead ensemble. "Once you're done with that dress, I'm going to need to borrow it. You look incredible."

Lifting an eyebrow, I tease, "As opposed to every other day, when I look?"

"Just as stunning." She leans over the bar to give me a kiss on the cheek, ignoring the two customers dangling bills in the air for her service. "I've just never seen so much of your skin exposed in public before." She pulls back so she can get another look at the 'sexy' version of me and winks. "It's a good look on you. You'll have the guys eating out of the palm of your hand tonight."

"Thanks," I say, biting my lower lip. "I just hope the dress does most of the work for me. I'm a bit out of my element here."

"You have nothing to worry about; trust me." And I do. If there's one thing my bombshell excels at, it's picking up men. Caroline reaches below the bar to grab a bottle of Absolut Pear and shouts to the bartender at the other end of the bar. "Tyler, cover the customers for a minute." She mixes the liquor with the remaining ingredients and tops the martini glass with a slice of pear before setting it down on the wood in front of me.

"This one's on me, but I expect payment for the rest," she insists, giving me a playful smile. "If you play your cards right, the guys will take care of that for you."

I lift the glass into the air and say, "Here's hoping," before bringing it to my lips.

"You don't need to hope," she assures, setting her elbows onto the bar so her arms cross. "Guys are simple and they all come here for the same reason you did. Just bat your eyelashes a bit, pump out your chest and be yourself. They'll be incapable of not falling in love with you."

"I don't need one to fall in love with me; I just need one to want to have sex with me."

"And as much as I love that spunk of yours right now, I have to ask: What brought this on?"

Her eyes are narrowed as she waits for my answer. I haven't been upfront with her about Damon; not because I'm afraid of her opinion on the matter, but because I don't really have a handle on what's happening to us myself. Still, she's my best friend and if anyone can help me figure this thing out, it's her.

So I roll my eyes and mutter, "Damon," before I take a second sip of my drink.

"I knew it," she hoots, flashing me an enlightened smile. "The boy is a solid piece of ass, Elena. I'm shocked you held out this long."

I choke a little on the martini I'm trying to swallow. "I'm not the one holding out. It's him."

She raises a skeptical brow.

"He has issues, Care. Ones I can't exactly go into. But he kissed me the other night out of the blue and I haven't been able to settle my libido since."

"That good?"

I sigh, remembering the feel of his lips smashed against mine. "Better."

A girl appears beside me at the bar and asks Caroline to make her a cosmopolitan. Without missing a beat, she starts grabbing the liquor and asks, "If he's holding out, why did he kiss you?"

"You've got me."

"Well, have you asked him?"

I shrug, pursing my lips. "Not exactly."

"Why?" she asks, exchanging the drink for money and settling back in front of me.

I can't exactly tell her it's because I'm his sole friend and he insisted we remain that way without offering up more info behind that whole scenario. But, I unload the past few weeks' worth of interactions I've shared with him. Just the surface details and my uncertainty; nothing too deep or revealing. Caroline listens intently, even as she continues to help customers, offering understanding nods and oh-my-gods in all of the appropriate places.

When I finish, I say, "So now I'm not sure I'm ready for his answer if I ask him about the kiss. If it's a bad one, I don't want the awkwardness that's going to follow. And if it's a good one, I'm not sure I'm ready to take the next step with him. He's my roommate still and he doesn't do relationships and…"

"He has issues," she supplies. Her eyes are imploring for an explanation on those issues and as much as I want to divulge Damon's past and Katherine's warning, I can't. If Damon had friends, I wouldn't want him blabbing about my mother to them. What we say to each other is confidential, just between us. It's a silent understanding we both accept and I don't want to break that established trust.

So instead of giving in, I give her a confirmative nod.

At my vague response, she releases a sighs and leans over the bar, giving me thoughtful eyes. "Elena, I love you and for as long as I've known you, you've had every detail of your life masterfully set in its specific place. You've colored between the lines and since Damon showed up, you've been different."

She raises her hand and shakes her pointer finger back and forth. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm just saying that it's a change. You're unsure of what you want, you're frantic and frustrated and I've seen you out in public without your work six times this month because you hate your job. And right now, I'm witnessing you ready to have sex with a stranger. You were never like this before."

Her grey eyes soften and her lips curl supportively. "But on the other hand, you're smiling and evolving and you're taking chances you never would have until he came in and started challenging you. So I guess what I'm trying to say here is that you need to figure out if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Once you come to that conclusion, it'll be easier to figure out what presence you want Damon to be in your life."

I always assumed Caroline chose this profession because she likes the hours. She's a night-owl and good with conversation. But now I see it's so much more than that. She's good with people. She's insightful and thought-provoking and most importantly, she's supportive.

"Can I hire you as my personal therapist? I can pay you in hugs."

She rolls her eyes playfully. "I'm already employed as a full time best friend."

"You're the best in the business. You should demand a raise."

"No need. It's a rewarding job."

"Right back at ya," I say, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze.

It's when the humor drops and she gets back down to business, "But in all seriousness, Damon's not going anywhere. You don't have to figure this out tonight. Take all of the time you need." Her mage-watt smile returns along with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. "And in the meantime, we'll find you sex. It'll help relieve some of this confusion you have going on in that pretty head of yours. Plus it'll make you feel a hell of a lot better."

"Thank you," I say, shooting her a supportive smile, before I switch directions. "But enough about me, what's going on in your life?"

She shrugs, reaching behind her to grab a Yuengling from the cooler. "Nothing much. Just livin' the dream." She twists the top and hands it to a customer, but after she swipes his credit card and he walks away, she halts her motions. Glancing up at me nervously, she discloses, "Actually, Stefan's been texting me."

"That's great!"

"Really?" she asks skeptically. "You're not mad?"

"Of course not," I assure without hesitation. "He and I didn't work out, but I think he'd be great for you."

"I'm not so sure," she admits, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "He's nice, but I'm afraid he's too nice. I'd chew him up and spit him back out."

She has a point, but still, Caroline deserves a good guy after all of the duds she's endured and Stefan has the potential to be that guy. I reach across the bar to take her hand again, reasoning, "Probably, but I think you should give him a chance. You need a little good in your life when it comes to men." Pulling back, I take a sip of my drink and add smoothly, "You never know, you might even like it."

She shrugs and offers me a, "Maybe," but it's clear she doesn't believe it.

I open my mouth to offer her more encouraging words, but Caroline holds up her hand and points to the other end of the bar. "Sex option number one is giving you serious fuck vibes right now."

Following the line of her finger, I twist my head only to realize Kol Michaelson is sex option number one. He'd been a co-owner at my company before his sister, Rebekah, and he cashed in their shares and left. Rebekah had left only two days after I'd been employed and I'd never had the chance to meet her. I'd heard she had issues with the way her brothers were running the company, but that was just office gossip so its legitimacy is still up in the air. Kol, on the other hand, wasn't fit for co-running a company. He was more interested in the playboy lifestyle his trust fund allowed than actually working, so after three weeks of knowing him, he'd waved goodbye.

Caroline's right, his eyes are hitting me pretty hard right now and although his immaturity doesn't make him a prime candidate as a dating partner, his boyish good looks and intense brown eyes make him perfect for a hook-up.

"I know him," I whisper to Caroline, although from this distance and with the booming sound of the music, its impossible Kol can hear me.

"Great," she beams, popping the cap off of a bottle of bud light and handing it to another customer. "As long as he isn't an ex-boyfriend, that will make the conversation easier."

"He isn't."

"Then go get him, tiger," she orders, practically removing my ass from my seat with the force of her hand on my arm. "He's too cute to pass on. Just give me the middle finger if you need my help."

I giggle at her signal choice and head to the opposite end of the bar. Now, I know I should consider his relation to my bosses, but Kol hadn't exactly parted from them on decent terms and I'm kind of operating with tunnel vision at the moment. Right now, he's an express pass to the O-train I so desperately need to catch and that overshadows everything.

As luck would have it, the seat next to Kol is empty so without asking, I claim it. The grin plastered on his adorable face tells me he's not objecting.

"My, my," he draws in his impeccably sexy English accent. "Well if it isn't Elena Gilbert."

I curl my lips into a sultry smile and run my fingers along the curve of my neck. "You remember me, Kol Michaelson?"

"Darling, I could never forget a face that near to perfection."

We exchange more pleasantries, thankfully never discussing my work. He buys me a few drinks, I flirt with newfound mastery and ultimately, we do the back and forth that leads to the moment where he asks me if I'm ready to leave.

The alcohol in my system is subtle, but suitable enough to give me the courage I need. I nod, biting my bottom lip to entice him a bit. His intake of breath assures me that I have this flirting thing down pat now.

After I give Caroline a hug goodbye and she insists I call her if Kol ends up being a sociopath, I head out into the sticky night air. Kol is waiting for me near the street as the door swings shut behind me and the nerves are starting to hit pretty hard. But I ignore them and focus on the excitement currently rushing through my body. I'm actually going to do this. I, Elena Gilbert, am going to have a one-night stand.

My body practically sighs in relief.

That is until Kol takes my hand and asks if we can go back to my place.

Widening my eyes, I challenge, "What's wrong with yours?"

"I have a few mates visiting from London at the moment and I own a studio apartment. No walls." He takes my hand and runs his thumb along the back side. "So unless you're into voyeurism, your flat is the preferable option."

At his proposition, I bite the inside of my cheek. Bringing sex partners back to our apartment isn't a situation Damon and I have had to face yet. For that, I've been grateful because the only person I ever assumed to bring someone over for a sleepover is Damon. But here I am, staring at a hopeful Kol with a body so desperate for release that I actually invite him over.

As we hail a taxi and head to the apartment, I justify this act as a necessary means. Damon and I are friends. That means I'm single and allowed to have sex with whoever I want. The same stands true for him. And although he hasn't brought anyone back to the apartment, I'm sure he'll understand. I'm human and have needs - needs that wouldn't be an issue if he hadn't kissed me. The rationalization soothes my agitated thoughts until the moment I step in front of our apartment door.

Turning around to face Kol, I peer up at him through my lashes and ask, "Can you wait out here for just a minute? I need to talk to my roommate first."

He doesn't appear at all offended when he nods his head. "Sure."

I insert my key into the new upgraded deadbolt Damon installed last week and step inside, making sure to shut the door softly behind me.

Damon's sitting on the couch with a plastic tray of food on his lap and the television is playing cartoons. I go to laugh at his resemblance to a toddler, but it's choked out of me when his eyes twist in my direction.

They're wide and predatorial and even from this distance, I notice his fingers clench around the edges of his plastic tray as he studies my attire. I suddenly feel 100% naked. But in the blink of an eye, it disappears, along with his sightline.

With his face pointed back at the television, Damon asks, "Did you borrow the lingerie from Caroline?"

There's disinterest in his voice, but I ignore it and walk over towards him. "No. It's mine." When I stand directly beside the couch, I question sweetly, "Are you saying you don't like it?" Apparently flirtation is a switch I've mastered flipping on, but seem to have a little trouble flipping off.

"I never said that." His eyes tilt to rake over my exposed skin, slowly taking it all in. My heartbeat sounds in my ear the entire time, alerting me of its presence - like I didn't already know it had a place in Damon's fucking palm. I notice his jaw tick. "Where were you?"

"With Caroline."

At my answer, he visibly relaxes. And with a nod, he lifts the tray up slightly to say, "Hope you don't mind, but I'm headed back out and I found this in the back of the freezer. It tastes like dog shit, but it works in a pinch." With a quirk of the lip, he teases, "Honestly, Elena, how many variations of mac n cheese do you have in this apartment?"

The shift in his demeanor has my muscles thawing and my humor surfacing. "And you know what dog shit tastes like how?"

"Well, I don't exactly," he replies with a roll of the eyes. "But if I did, this is how it would taste. You can quote me on that."

There's another quip loaded on the back of my throat, but Kol is waiting patiently outside of the door. I play with my thumbs, deliberating the best way to approach this uncomfortable topic. I want to be delicate about my entry, but end up blurting out, "There's actually a situation outside the door."

"Fuck," Damon groans, lifting from the couch. "Are Liv and Luke at it again?"

He takes a step to maneuver around me and handle the situation when I place a hand on his chest. "No. I," I fumble, "well…" C'mon, Elena, you can do this. "I brought someone home with me."

His eyes narrow. "I take it that person isn't Caroline."

"No," I say, pulling my hand back from his chest because the darkness in his eyes is quite frightening. "That person is my friend Kol."

Damon doesn't say anything for a few seconds. He just blinks. Once, twice, a third time, before he nods. With a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, he suggests enthusiastically, "Well bring him on in."

I don't like the look on his face or the chipper tone of his voice. It's unnatural and has me wary. "Are you going to behave yourself?"

"Don't I always?"

Shaking my head, I turn around and open the door to let in Kol, begging that Damon doesn't do something stupid. It's pointless optimism because as soon as Kol steps into our apartment, Damon shoots him a vindictive smirk. One I know signifies spiteful intentions.

"Hey, Kol; nice to meet you man." His voice still holds the forced delight from before and my nails subconsciously dig into my palms.

Kol doesn't notice a thing. With a perky smile, he replies, "Likewise."

The smirk doesn't falter when Damon claims, "Don't worry, I'm leaving in a minute so I'll be out of your hairs. I just wanted to give Elena something first before I do." He reaches over the far edge of the couch and lifts a black case I hadn't realized was there. I'm frozen, the soles of my heels adhered to the hardwood, as I watch Damon's actions.

Once it's set on the coffee table, he flips the two clasps on the side and pulls out a gun, positioning it in his palm with mastered ease. It's a perfect fit. Damon's eyes lift to meet mine. "Since _you know who_ is looking for us, I figured it was about time we got protection. They're dangerous people, Elena, and you can't be too careful."

Kol twists around to face me. His eyes are wide and his jaw is sagging towards the floor. "Someone's looking for you?"

"No," I scoff, doing my best to both reassure Kol and glare at Damon, "Don't believe a word he says."

"She's being discreet, Kol," Damon says with absurd nonchalance as he walks towards us. "Any minute, dangerous people could come barging through that door and kill us all. But don't worry, now that we have this, we'll all be safe."

"I'm sorry, Elena." Kol says, not meeting my eyes since his are trained on the gun hanging at Damon's side. "This has been lovely, but I think it's time I head back to my flat."

Kol twists around and storms out the door with remarkable haste and before I can even mutter a single opposition, he's gone.

Rage spikes through my bloodstream as I stare baffled at the closed door. Damon's chuckles sound from my back and I hear his steps as he retreats back to his spot on the couch. I'm furious, both at Damon's actions and the fact that I lost my only solution to this sexual tension problem. Spinning back around to face Damon, I clench my fists at my sides, willing my temper to settle down. It's unsuccessful and I give up.

I charge towards the couch and before he even knows what's coming, I punch him square in the arm. "I know this is a running joke," I snarl, punching him in the chest, "but you are the biggest," another punch, "asshole," a fourth punch, "I have ever known." I punctuate my statement with a smack of my hand against the back of his head. He chuckles through the entire act.

As the anger slowly trickles away and I take a deep settling breath, Damon snatches both of my wrists and swirls us around so my back lands on the couch. He's hovering a few inches above my face, an amused smile on his while he breathes my same air. I want to bite his face, make him hurt and feel the same resentment towards me as I do him. But right now I can't even differentiate if my accelerated heartbeat has to do with his proximity and my sexual tension or the act of making him my punching bag.

"Are you done?" His breath hits my face. It smells like temptation. Suddenly, all of the anger seeps from my body.

His left knee is wedged between my thighs on the couch, pushing the material of my dress up slightly and I'm finding it difficult to actually answer his words with a piece of him so close to where I've been yearning for his contact. My blood throbs where we're connected, almost as if it's reaching out for him, and amplifying his touch. It's possible that if he pulls back to release me, he'll have a visual sightline of my lace boy shorts right now. That thought has my heart pounding and heat striking low.

How is it possible that he doesn't feel the same pull I do when we're tangled like this?

His eyes drop momentarily to my mouth, banishing my thought before they lower to my chest. He's mesmerized by the drastic motion as it rises and falls, the smile on his face dissolving. Then his eyes fix themselves back onto mine. They're bright and vivid and dangerously seductive. The connection it evokes threads through every inch of my body, pulsing just below the surface. I feel it everywhere.

The air is drenched in desire and when he realizes that fact, he lets go of my wrists and pulls back. Taking a step away from the coach, he inhales deeply as though he was just having as much trouble pulling the air into his lungs as I was. It's flowing in and out swiftly now without his hands on my skin or his presence invading my space. The air suddenly feels cold, emotionless.

I sit up and pull the sides of my dress down my thighs before I stand. Not looking at him, I say, "I'm going to go change." He doesn't reply as I leave him in the living room and I know for sure that this time he feels the same haunting burn I do every time he leaves the room.

* * *

><p>There's a knock of my bedroom door a half hour later. I've cleaned off my makeup and changed into a loose fitting t-shirt and pajama shorts, sitting under my covers reading <em>Pride and Prejudice<em> for the umpteenth time. I'd wanted to get a head start on Hayley's manuscript, but didn't really have the heart to dive into its topic or make the trip to the kitchen island to get it. Thankfully, I keep one book in the drawer of my nightstand and it happens to be my favorite.

When I don't respond to the knock, Damon cracks the door open and pops his head in.

Damn it. I should have had him replace the knob on this door when he switched the one on the bathroom. It would have made locking him out much more effective.

"Peace offering?" he proposes innocently, lifting a plate of grilled cheese through the doorway.

Its appealing aroma drifts into my room and seduces my nostrils. My tummy growls appropriately. And although I'm starving since the appetizers at _The Lakehouse_ are pretty much inedible, I'm still pissed at him.

Snapping my book shut, I set it onto my nightstand and clip, "You are the most infuriating person I've ever known."

"C'mon. I used Gruyere," he claims enticingly, all smiley and adorable. It makes me want to donkey punch him in the throat. Especially since Gruyere is my favorite cheese and he knows it. Its perfect blend of sharp and sweet flavors is my Achilles heel.

"That's not fighting fair."

He shrugs. "Maybe not, but you know you still want it anyway." With one last friendly smile, he states, "It'll be out here when you're ready," before he backs away.

I stare at the empty crack he left open in the doorway, debating whether he deserves any degree of civility right now, before my stomach lets out another growl. With a roll of my eyes, I toss off my comforter and head out to the common area.

I don't say a single word to him as I sit down in the middle island stool and take a bite of my sandwich.

Damon's standing on the opposite side watching me. I have the massive urge to give him the middle finger, but withstand so I can shove another bite into my mouth.

After a few moments of silence pass and I've finished the first half of my sandwich, Damon says, "I like you better like this."

I lift up the second half of the grilled cheese and take another bite, making sure to rudely chew through my next words. "Baggy and homely?"

"Stripped down," he corrects. "The make-up and the dress, it wasn't you."

At his words, I set down my sandwich and release a sigh. "I don't understand you sometimes."

"What's not to understand?"

Everything. It's like he's perfected the art of twisting me around until I'm dizzy. I can't comprehend how he can be such a gigantic ass one minute, give me lusty eyes the next, say remarkably sweet things immediately after, follow it up with the way he's looking at me now and remain firm in his stance that we're just friends.

So I sum it all up in a single sentence. "Friends don't cock block friends, Damon."

"Elena…" he starts, but I can already tell his voice holds no remorse.

"No, don't _Elena_ me," I interject. "I've never once cock blocked you."

He holds up his hands to point out, "In my defense, I've never brought anyone back here."

I roll my eyes. "Doesn't mean you're not hooking up with girls at their places. And if I was around there, I wouldn't cock block."

I frown at him, wishing that he was a better friend or, even better, that he wasn't so damn confusing all of the time. He's disappointed me and after his pathetic show tonight I hate that I feel that way after I've been so supportive of his secrets.

When I lower my hands to pick up my sandwich again, Damon says, "He was a coke addict."

Excuse me? I think Damon just insinuated that Kol has a drug problem. If I'd managed to get the sandwich to my mouth, I'd probably be spitting my bite out right now. I adamantly shake my head. "Not a chance."

"He was," he urges softly, apologetic even. "His collar was drenched in sweat, his eyes were bloodshot and his fingers were twitching against his pants. All are dead giveaways."

Now that I think about it, Kol _had_ used the bathroom right before we left. The conversation had flown swiftly between us at the bar because he'd done most of the talking for me, but I'd assumed that was due to his self-confidence. And he'd been fidgety all evening. I just hadn't noticed because I'd been too blinded by my goal of getting him into bed.

Besides, if anyone can recognize the signs of drug abuse, it'd be the guy who used to enforce payment for them. The thought is bitter and - _dammit_. It was so much easier to be cross with Damon before he morally cock-blocked me.

"I liked you better before I knew you were a crime lord's attack thug," I mutter, setting my elbows on the table and throwing my head into the palms of my hands.

But he ignores my dig and claims, "So instead of getting all huffy and puffy, you should actually be thanking me."

He's gloating now, his apologetic undertone nowhere to be found, and it reminds me that I'm still irritated with him. So I quip, "Sure, just come on over and I'll pucker my lips."

Recognition dawns on his face. "So _that's_ what this is about."

"No."

He lifts his brows in a challenge.

"Alright, a little," I admit, before I lift my face up. "Look, I know I'm supposed to be that 'cool girl' that's okay with some meaningless kiss, but I'm not that girl. I'm OCD and my brain works way too hard to let something like that go. I overanalyze everything. And for the past week and a half I've been trying to wrap my head around why you would do it after we're both trying so damn hard not to fuck this friendship up."

"I was curious and wanted to try it out," he says, the motions of his shoulder rippling through a nonchalant shrug. Then he winks. "You exceeded expectations, by the way."

It's like smashing my head into a brick wall.

"I wasn't aware I was being judged," I grumble.

"Elena, lighten up. It was just a kiss," he stresses, leaning across the table so he can link his fingers through mine. A few breadcrumbs catch between them, but he doesn't seem to care. "I do stupid shit sometimes."

Well that's the understatement of the decade. "I know."

His eyes are linked with mine, an endless sea of open ended sorrow, when he says, "I'm sorry if I stepped over boundaries and made it seem like this friendship of ours isn't important. It is. I'm just still trying to figure out how it works."

I want to tell him that he actually smashed through those boundaries and sparked this persistent hunger inside of me that can't be satisfied. That Kol had been a silly attempt at a substitute for the person I actually want on top of me, but I can't say that. Not when I know the kiss meant far less to him than maintaining a healthy friendship.

And as dissatisfying as the situation is, I get it. Relationships swell and soar before they potentially come crashing down. They're messy and unpredictable. They break apart even quicker than they're built and although every piece of me wants to build something with Damon, I don't want us to meet that fate. I just want him to be around. Same as he does with me.

So I simply declare, "Just don't kiss me again."

"Your lips are officially off limits." His hand is still interlocked with mine, a representation of our pact that neither of us is letting go, even when the other stumbles. It makes forgiving his downfalls so much easier.

I'm the first to break the contact because despite the drama, there's something I'm eager to see.

"Can I check out my gun?"

He throws his hand over his heart and closes his eyes. "Dear God, Elena, I think that's the hottest thing you've ever said to me." Reopening them, he throws up his pointer finger and teases, "Can you hold that thought for a second while I go jerk off?"

I shake my head and glare at him.

"What?" he asks. "I agreed to not kissing you. Asinine flirtation is still on the table."

"Without it you'd be mute."

"And what a bore that would be."

He laughs as he walks to the coffee table and retrieves my gun. When he sets it in the palm of my outstretched hand, my eyes widen in wonder.

"You got me a pink gun." The pre-teen in me wants to hug it against my chest like it's a mystical fluffy unicorn.

"Coral," he corrects, clearly pleased with himself.

I should let him have this moment. Clearly, he put a lot of effort into getting me a gun in my favorite color, but I can't resist. "It's pink."

He shakes his head as I giggle. "I don't understand you women and colors."

"It's a complicated matter," I retort, flipping the gun around in my hand. "One you'd understand if you owned anything that wasn't brown, blue or your favorite, black."

"You don't mess with what works."

He's scrunched down so his face is resting next to mine, studying my reaction to the gift he's given me. His enthusiasm is contagious. I'm appreciative and really don't want to spoil the moment, but I have to ask, "So did you steal it?"

He pulls back so he's standing again and scratches the back of his neck. "Don't ask question you don't want answers to, Elena."

I sigh, disappointed that after only a few days he's reverted back to one of his old tactics. He's not looking at me, but I wait for his eyes to find mine again. And when they do, I ask, "What happened to a fresh start, Damon?"

"I didn't hurt anyone to get it," he justifies. "That's a start. The rest is a learning curve."

As he makes a curving motion with his hand, I shake my head and fail to hide my smile. Since he didn't beat anyone to get the thing and neither of us can really afford it the proper way, I'll let him off easy this time.

Still, I hope he makes a better effort in the future. So I instruct, "Learn quicker."

"Don't look at me with those judgy eyes," he teases, lifting two fingers so they're directly in front of my face. "You needed protection when I'm not around and now you have it. Once I teach you how to use the thing, I'll sleep better at night."

"Good. Because in case you forgot, the walls are thin, and you don't exactly listen to the television at a reasonable volume."

"I like to feel what I'm watching," he claims smugly, as if this justifies keeping me up until 2am or 3am or whenever the hell he eventually drifts off at night.

"Well, tonight you'll be feeling _Sex & The City_." Damon's brows rise at my accidental sexual innuendo, before I backtrack. "Not literally, of course, but…" Then I remember that he'd said he was leaving earlier. "Shit, maybe you will be. Weren't you going somewhere?"

There might be a bit of bile rising in the back of my throat as I consider him with another woman, but I will it back down and repeat the word 'friend' over and over in the back of my mind.

"You think I'm meeting a chick?" he prods, amusement dancing beneath his lashes.

I tilt my chin defiantly in the air and state, "I wouldn't cock block you if you were."

He chuckles. "You're a better friend than I am." He demonstrates that fact by taking a bite of the remaining half of my sandwich. "One of the guys at work is throwing a party tonight and since you weren't home I figured I'd check it out. But I passed."

The notion that he blew off the party because he wanted to patch things up with me resembles the sensation of a comforting hug. But just because I'm home, doesn't mean he needs to stay with me. I'm a grown woman and am perfectly capable of watching my favorite show alone.

"You don't have to become a hermit because of me, you know? Go on," I urge, "go to the party."

"Nah," he dismiss without a missing a beat. "I'm right where I want to be."

I'd be lying if I said those words didn't curl around me like soft silk.

But I play it cool and counter, "Standing and watching me eat grilled cheese?"

"What can I say?" he purrs. "You do wicked things with those lips I'm not allowed to touch."

I set the gun down onto the island and make a show of shoving the entire remaining half of the sandwich into my mouth.

With chunks sticking out between my lips because the sandwich was bigger than I realized, Damon grins. He also takes it upon himself to shove it the rest of the way in for me. His fingers never once touch my lips. And as I gag, he laughs.

"Sexy." He picks up the gun from the countertop and places it back into the case on the coffee table before closing the clasps. "Now clean that dish and get your ass over to the couch. I want to watch _Sex & The City _with my girl."

I know from the way _'my girl'_ ignites my blood that I'm in deeper than I should be. Damon can piss me off, drive me crazy and spin my head in circles, but he's also the cure that settles it all down. I don't know if that's necessarily a good thing or not, but as I clean my plate and settle beside him on our couch, I realize I'm tired of trying to figure this thing out. I'm right where I want to be too and it's where I'm going to stay.

I just need to stock up on more batteries.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm settling into the busy season at work so my updates might be a little less frequent from here on out as my free time dwindles. But I promise to write whenever I have time and hopefully don't keep y'all waiting too long.<strong>

_**Please Read & Review. :)**_

_**I'm on Twitter and Tumblr: morvamp**_


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm giving all of you a serious hug. One of those where I squeeze you so hard that you can't breathe kind of hugs because I'm so thankful for all of your kind words and support. It appears I've hit that portion of my story where my chapters get longer. It always happens, even if I don't want it to. But I've got plotlines threading now and in order to include them and the DE scenes, that means a lot more words.**

**I've had a couple people ask me how long this fic is going to be and my honest answer is that I really have no clue. I know where I want to end up and the basic path of how we're going to get there, but the rest is up in the air. It's vague, yes, but my best reply is that there's at least 6 (probably more) chapters left.**

* * *

><p>"Good Morning, Elena," Elijah greets when I step into his office Monday morning with a stack of papers clutched against my chest. "I expect you've read the manuscripts I requested."<p>

I take a seat opposite of him at the desk and nod. "Yes, sir."

"And your thoughts?"

Setting the manuscripts onto his desk, I point to the pages paper clipped to the covers. "They're all written down on these sheets."

But he bats my instructions away with the simple flick of his hand. "Don't be coy. What did you think?"

What he's really asking is: what did you think of my lover's manuscript. My answer to that won't appease him, so I postpone it for the more positive analysis. "The Sci-Fi novel is a great piece; very in-depth and entertaining. Overall, it's a great read. I just made a few minor plot suggestions and touched up the grammar."

Elijah sighs and rubs his temple, as if my entire Friday afternoon of unpaid work on that manuscript is an annoyance. So much for appreciation. "And Hayley's?"

I bite the inside of my cheek, understanding that this isn't going to bode well for me.

"Elena?" he asks impatiently.

"It needs work."

"Elaborate."

If we were discussing a general author's future novel, this wouldn't be difficult, but with Elijah's relation to this particular author, I know he's not going to be pleased with my opinion. Still, this is my job and while I can't tell him the entire piece needs to be rewritten, I can guide him and ultimately Haley in the right direction.

"The concept is pretty straight-forward and it works, but her main character has serious flaws that I'm unsure a reader will be able to overlook."

He raises his brows. "Those being?"

I fold my hands together in my lap and just blurt it out. "She's unlikable."

Elijah purses his lips, taking the moment to fumble with an unimportant folder in front of him. As he begins flipping through its contents as though I'm not in his presence, I elaborate. "She lacks a backbone and allows not only the male protagonist to walk all over her, but all of the sub-characters as well. Young readers want a heroine they can relate to and find inspiring. Haley dropped the ball in that sense."

"What makes you so certain readers won't find her inspiring?" He still doesn't grace me with his attention as he pulls a sheet of paper from the folder and lifts it up to read.

Seriously? I'm trying to help out _his_ girlfriend or fuck partner or whatever the hell she is and I can't even warrant his full attention? I lean forward in an attempt to amplify my presence and declare, "Because I didn't."

"And you're qualified to speak for the masses because?"

I should keep my mouth shut. It's what I've done for the past year and a half, but I consider Haley's character and the annoyance that fostered every time she didn't speak up for herself. I won't be a walking depiction of that spineless sap.

I stand, resulting in Elijah's eyes finally lifting from his paper and onto me, as I insist, "Sir, I've read enough of this genre to know what the audience is looking for. It's why you hired me and it's why I'm still working here."

He laughs something cold and condescending. "You're working here because I allow you to."

My rage simmers, making my heartbeat pound in my ears, as I attempt to keep my voice level. "And also because I'm good at my job." It comes out strong and as a result, I have the severe urge to crack my knuckles, but I digress. I'm a professional, after all. Even if my boss isn't. So I follow it up with, "You can choose to take my suggestions into consideration or you can publish the novel as is and let it flop. Ultimately, it's your call."

Elijah's expression is hard and composed, but beneath that polished exterior is a furious man that's been challenged for probably the first time in his existence. And as he stares at me, not blinking, I'm forced to stifle my smile.

When he finally speaks, he turns to his computer, per usual, and shows me the bottom level of respect. "Indeed it is."

I roll my eyes because he can't see the action before he instructs, "The manuscripts on my desk are due back to me first thing Friday morning."

He doesn't utter another word, signifying our conversation is over, so neither do I. I lift the leaning stack of papers into my arms and stroll back out of his door, beaming at my accomplishment. I may still work for a patronizing dick, but at least I was able to assert the fact that I deserve some respect.

That instance happened Monday morning and I haven't heard a single word spoken by Elijah since. Considering it's Wednesday and I'm packing up to leave, I'd say it's the first time I've ever been rewarded for my weekend labor. A week without his haughty attitude is a week in paradise.

So what if it signifies my boss is pissed at me? If he has a problem with me actually doing my job, he can shove it. The authors deserve my honesty, even if the author makes questionable life choices like sleeping with my asshat of a boss. Elijah may have an issue with it, but it's because of that dedication to our authors that we have one of the best sales-records in the publishing community. Sugar coating doesn't work in this business. Brutal honesty does, as well as good intuition. I already have the second and the first is what I'm going to continue to dish out.

Speaking of brutal honesty, Bonnie just asked me what I thought about another possible romantic interest.

"Who am I looking at again?" I ask, squinting my eyes as I lean down to look at the tiny image of a man's Facebook picture on her cell.

"Atticus Shane," she says confidently.

"That's one hell of a name."

"How important is a name, really?"

I shrug. "Depending on how many times I have to cry it out while we're having sex, I'd say it's pretty important."

"You're starting to talk like Damon," she quips, scrunching up her nose in revulsion. "I don't like it."

"It was a joke, B."

"And it's steering us away from the importance of how attractive Atticus is," she counters, lifting her phone back in front of my face.

"Can we stop saying his name?" I tease, placating her by taking the phone from between her fingers and studying the image. Staring back at me is a striking man with kind eyes. "It seriously detracts from the positive looks this guy has going for him."

"Fine," she succumbs, standing up so she can see the screen. "We'll call him Shane."

"Better."

With her face resting next to mine, she embellishes, "He's a professor at NYU, has a great personality, and he loves dogs."

Handing her back the phone, I clip, "You lost me at dogs." Actually, she lost me before I even saw a picture of the guy. My heart is attached to a certain someone at the moment, even if it's never going to cross the friendship parameters we've established. Everyone else is just an unsatisfactory alternative at this point, and until I get a handle on that situation, I'm steering clear of the opposite sex - romantically speaking, that is. But she doesn't need to know that.

"What?" she balks. "That shows compassion and heart. Every girl wants that in her man."

Turning around so I can pack up the remainder of my things, I point out, "It also means shedding and poop and neither is what I see in my future."

"Do you see yourself in a relationship in the future?" she asks as my phone dings. "Because I'm starting to think you don't want one."

"Not true," I reply, lifting the phone and seeing the email I have waited weeks to pop in my inbox. "I've just decided to take a step back from the dating pool for a bit to focus on my career. I have enough friends to satisfy the loneliness in the meantime," I insist, leaning forward to give her a peck on the cheek. "But hey, I've gotta get going. I'll see you tomorrow."

I quickly stride out of the room, fighting to keep my composure as I do, but as soon as I step foot out of our building, I allow a grin to permeate my entire face. The urge to reread the email in greater detail is substantial, but fails in comparison to the urge I have to share my news. So I hail a taxi and head home towards the one person I want to share it with.

* * *

><p>Damon's dusting my bookshelf when I get home and it's just sprinkles on my cupcake at this point. The action alone is enough to make me smile, but the news I have is the reason it's actually there.<p>

"Two days," Damon quips, holding up the dust rag and pointing at the shelf I've resisted cleaning. "I didn't think you had it in you to hold out that long. You going through withdrawals?"

"Nope," I reply, springy slightly on my heels like a giddy child.

"What's got you so bouncy?" he questions with furrowed brows. "I know the cleaning bit gets you all hot and excited, but there's more happening here."

"It happened," I squeal, clutching my phone in my grasp as I walk over to hand it to him.

He throws the dirty rag over his shoulder and looks at the screen while I vivaciously tap my fingertips against my grinning lips. When his eyes widen, I can't hold my excitement in any longer. I throw my head back and toss out my arms, screaming, "I got an interview at _The Hatchett Book Group_!"

I spin around the room, immersed in my elation when I feel Damon's muscular arms around my waist. He lifts me up, a gorgeous smile lighting his features, as he claims supportively, "It's about fucking time."

With my tiny body smashed against the solid planes of his chest, I toss my arms around his neck and relish in his hug. I don't even care that my face is pressed against the still present rag on his shoulder because his body is warm and his skin smells phenomenal and I have a fucking interview.

With my life on the fast track to success and Damon holding me in his arms, there isn't a single thing I can complain about. Then it hits me…

"Oh god," I gasp, pulling out of his grasp so I can thread my fingers through my hair. "I have an interview. I haven't interviewed in a year and a half." I twist on my heels and charge towards my desk in Damon's room. Without wasting the second to sit in the chair, I bend forward and flip open my laptop, typing words furiously onto the keyboard. "I need to figure out what questions they're going to ask and figure out what I should say."

"Tap the breaks there, Speedy Gonzales," Damon says as he walks into the room, but I ignore him.

"They're going to ask me what my strengths and weaknesses are and hell if I know." I roll my eyes around in their sockets, mimicking the thoughts rolling around in my head. "I guess I'm a dedicated worker, at least I was until I started to hate my job. Then again, I still get all of my shit done on or before my deadlines, so I guess I can still use that as an answer."

"Elena," Damon interrupts, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"And I graduated Magna Cum Laude," I continue, scrolling through the websites Google supplied. "I could use that to showcase my expertise."

Damon's fingers are gripping into my shoulder, trying to turn me around when he asks, "Magna Cum what?"

"It means I graduated top of my class with a GPA over 3.8," I supply, brushing his hand off. "It's tough to do, especially at a university like Brown, but is it enough to wow them?" I ponder that for a second, focusing on that instead of Damon's hand which has once again landed on my shoulder. "If I pair it with the sales records of the books I've edited over the past year, then maybe."

Lifting into a standing position, I rake my hand through my hair and question out loud, "But my weakness. What are my weaknesses?"

It's when Damon's hands land on my cheeks, demanding my attention as he brings his eyes right in front of mine. The single action stops the erratic threading of my thoughts, supplying me with an answer I already know.

He's my weakness. There's no refuting that. But I can't give his name as an answer during my interview.

I'm captivated by the curves of his perfectly edible lips when he says, "Five minute time out before you get lost in your head for the next five days."

At the mention of five days, I shake my head back and forth and regain my focus. "Five days?"

"Yeah, the interview is Monday afternoon, which leaves you five days to freak the fuck out and prepare for it," he reasons before cocking his head to the side. "Not like you need to. You've got this position already in the bag."

"You don't know that." Nobody can. There may be twenty other people lined up for the same interview and what's to say I'm better than Joe Blow sitting next to me in the waiting room?

"I do. You have the resume' and the stats to prove your worth and the second they hear you talk about your dedication to making the books you read successful, they won't be able to say no to you," he claims confidently. "You're fucking good at your job and you deserve this. They'll know that immediately."

He's being so damn supportive and I want to believe everything he's saying, but it's difficult with the nerves settling in.

"You only say that because Caroline believes it and I'm a bit of a bragger."

He shakes his head and playfully rolls his eyes at my doubt. "No, I say it because I have to sit there every night and listen to you drone on about whether the circumstances in a book have made it believable for Harry to end up with Sally at the end of some cheesy romance or whether it's more fitting for a cult to have 100 followers or 104. You don't just care about the overall product, but the details and the authenticity that makes it successful. And you do that on your own time for a company that pays you a trillion times less that what you're actually worth.

"You love being an editor, Elena, and although those Mikaelson bastards haven't given you the proper title or salary, it's what you are. So stop freaking out because that love is what's going to land you the job and that experience is going to be the yellow brick road that leads you to it."

This beautiful man with an arsenal of snarky one liners and sarcastic retorts just shattered all of my apprehensions with a two minute stream of heartfelt optimism. Sure, he's a pain in the ass most of the time, but it's the breakthroughs like this that reveal who Damon truly is. It's the ones my heart can't seem to stop tripping over as it attempts to walk away from him.

I should be furious that he's done it again, but all I feel is gratitude.

With the heat of his fingertips still seeping under my skin and the weight of his support still clenching my chest, I smile. "You can be really sweet when you want to be."

He rolls his eyes at my mushiness. "I pick and choose my moments."

"Thank you for this one."

I see the effects of my appreciation stretch over Damon's features. His lips lift slightly, an enchanting curve I spend my nights visualizing, the corners of his eyes crinkle in delight, and his brows relax with a sigh of contentment. It's sunshine and warmth breaking through a vast stretch of clouds, but as he backs away and shields his face by twisting around, I know I wasn't supposed to see it.

But I see you, Damon. I always see you.

"Now that we've bypassed your panic attack," Damon says, stepping through the door and down the hallway, "we finally have an excuse to pop open this bad boy."

When I follow him to the kitchen, he's pulling our bottle of red wine from the top of the fridge.

But I digress. "That's for a special occasion."

"And this would be considered?"

"Not one," I say. As he sneers in annoyance, I elaborate, "I don't have the job yet."

He opens his mouth to bark off another opposition when I hold up my finger. "And although you're completely sure I do, I want to wait until I really have it before we drink it." I step over and swipe the wine from Damon to set it back on top of the fridge. "The bottle's been up there for a month. What's another few days of waiting, really?"

Damon shrugs. "Pointless?"

I flip by brows into the air and give him a cheeky smirk. "Regardless, I want to wait."

"Fine," he releases, along with a dramatic blast of air. "But if we're not drinking that, we're going out tonight. You've earned a celebration and I've earned some hard liquor. And before you say no," he starts, stalking his way across the room to grab and toss me the dust rag, "remember, I cleaned your bookshelf."

I catch it with ease and wring it between my fingers. "I have to work tomorrow morning."

"Call out," he offers without missing a beat. "Those unappreciative dicks only have you for another week or two anyway. What's a day off going to cost you?"

He has a point, but, "I've never called out a day in my life."

Damon walks back over so he's right in front of my face, a roughish smirk resting on his lips. "All the more reason why you should," he entices. "Live on the edge."

He's mocking me, but with a new job in my prospects I can't feel the burn of my usual anger. Plus, if no longer working under Elijah isn't a reason to celebrate, I don't know what is.

So I give him a confirmatory nod and say, "Let's do it."

* * *

><p>We meet Caroline at <em>Cielo<em> after deciding an evening like tonight warranted someplace other than our usual watering hole. Since I don't frequent the nightlife scene often enough to know what's happening and Damon doesn't care, we left the destination in my bombshell's hands.

As we weave our way through a surging ocean of bodies with electronica dance music pulsing through our ears, it's obvious we should have just picked a place ourselves.

"This shithole smells like our dumpsters," Damon yells as we head towards the bar. It's a difficult trek through arm jabs to the stomach and heel stomps on my exposed toes, but Damon's arm is around my waist, keeping me balanced. In his embrace, I feel safe. And in a place like this, that's saying a lot.

As a shirtless guy drenched in his own perspiration fist pumps in front of me, I shout, "I think that would be the body odor." Waves of it crash against my face with each arm thrust this guy makes.

Damon reaches around me to shove him aside, clearing a tiny path for me to take three more steps. And after five more minutes of treacherous weaving, we finally emerge from the dance floor.

"I think I need a shower." I flick my hands in front of me in an attempt to rid myself of the sweat that's just been wiped over my body.

"This is nothing," Damon retorts. "Try going two weeks without one and we'll talk."

His delivery of the line is easy, but it's always unsettling when Damon references the life he lived before I knew him. He's had a rough go at it and I hate thinking about that. Damon deserves the best. I'm not saying the best is me, just that I'm glad that by living with me, I've been able to rectify a few of the luxuries he wasn't offered before.

That tiny improvement makes me smile.

Caroline emerges from the very same dance floor we did. However; unlike us, she's been dancing. Her hair is a blend of frizz and sweat, but it doesn't keep the eyes away. There's at least three in our vicinity that are locked on her right now and, per usual, she is unaffected as she squeals, "You made it!"

"Unfortunately," Damon groans

"Oh, shove it, Damon," Caroline mutters playfully, reaching over to grab me by the wrist. "We're here to celebrate. If you can't do that then Elena and I can handle ourselves."

Damon's eyes scour the room. "I'm not so sure about that."

For some reason, he's nervous, which makes me nervous. But I'm ditching work for the first time in my existence and I'm making sure it's for a damn good reason. I reach out and tap him on the nose, gaining his attention.

"You're the one who wanted to go out tonight," I point out. "So lighten up and let's get a few drinks."

With one last look around the club, Damon nods.

Despite Caroline's protests, we stay near the bar. Damon sips on his bourbon while Caroline and I toss back shots. Not too many, just enough to feel a good buzz. Each one is accompanied by a toast to my golden future and after an hours' worth, Damon finally takes one with us.

"What the fuck was that?" he shouts, slamming the empty shot glass onto the sticky bar. On his face rests a look of pure revulsion.

Caroline tosses her head back in laughter and I say, "A Pink Starburst Shot."

"Fitting. It was like a hit of pure sugar." He sips his bourbon to wash it away. "How the hell do you drink that shit?"

Caroline smiles. "It's called being a girl."

"Which thankfully you are not," I add.

"Thankfully." Damon chuckles. He reaches forward to swipe a bit of alcohol from my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb before wiping it off on his jeans. "Can I trust the two of you to stay put for a minute while I hit up the bathroom?"

"Doubtful," Caroline replies.

"Of course," I say at the same time.

Damon raises his brows questioningly, which I follow up with an encouraging smile. "We'll stay here. I promise."

Apparently it's satisfactory because he turns around and disappears into the darkness of the club. As soon as he's gone, Caroline hones her eyes on me. "What was that?"

"What was what?" I ask, being coy.

"Don't play innocent with me, Elena," she scowls. "Friends do not wipe each other's lips and friends most certainly do not look at each other the way you've been looking at him all night."

Shit. I thought I was being discreet about my affections. Guess I was wrong.

Biting my lower lip, I scrunch my face and ask, "Is it that obvious?"

"You glare like a stop light."

"Well that's not ideal."

She sighs and positions herself in front of me with a hand on each of my arms. "Have you figured out where the two of you stand after that kiss?"

"Yep. Still friends," I answer with a nod. More inquiries are coming down the tube and I understand that she's just trying to be a good friend, but I don't want the fifth degree. Not tonight when we're supposed to be celebrating. So before she's given the opportunity, I counter, "Have you given anymore thought about Stefan?"

She nods and repeats my word. "Yep. Still friends."

"I think that's a mistake."

She crosses her arms against her chest. "And I think you not pursuing Damon is a mistake."

"It's complicated," I point out. Sure, she already knows that fact, but it warrants repeating.

"What in life isn't?" she refutes before reaching out for my arm again. Her smile is supportive when she says, "Issues or not, the way you look at him, well, he reciprocates it. This attraction isn't a one way street…"

But her words trail off as I notice someone out of the corner of my eye. I can't see the front of her, but I see her backside grinding against the thigh of a man with dreadlocks. Her style is unmistakable as are her long tendrils of chocolate hair. Plus, I'd never forget an ass that spectacular. I mean, I'm straight, but that thing deserves a shrine. It also deserves to be on my body instead of that wicked witch's.

Caroline snaps her fingers in my face, pulling my attention away from the dancefloor and back onto her. "Elena, are you even listening to me?"

I open my mouth to speak, but snap it back shut. Caroline knows nothing about Katherine or the danger she poses and although I really, really want to clue her in on the severity of the situation, it's still Damon's secret to tell. Not mine.

Thankfully, he reappears so I don't have to. As soon as he's within arm's reach, I yank on his shoulder and say, "I think Katherine's here."

His eyes narrow and his body tenses before his eyes meet Caroline. She's thankfully already preoccupied in a side conversation with another guy, completely oblivious to what's happening. When Damon's eyes settle back onto mine, he shrugs off his discomfort and laughs. It's shaky at best. "Just because someone has dark hair and shops in the rock department at _Gymboree_, doesn't mean they're Katherine."

My face scrunches in confusion.

"It's a children's store, Elena," he explains, shaking his head. "Stick with me."

I level him with a glare. "Don't be a jerk. I know what I saw, Damon."

"The Meatpacking District's not really her scene."

"It isn't ours either," I reason. People branch out. Just because Katherine didn't come here in the past doesn't mean she isn't here now.

With a defeated sigh, he finally yields. "Fine. Then we need to leave."

I nod in agreement when Caroline exists her conversation to lean herself into ours. "We're leaving?"

She's disappointed and because she is, I feel terrible.

With an apologetic frown, I say, "Sorry, Care."

"Well, hello there gorgeous."

All three of our heads twist around to see two guys; both are decently built and fairly easy on the eyes.

"Tyler," Caroline sneers, looking at the one on the right. By the abhorrence dripping down her face and the disgust lacing her tone, it's clear whoever Tyler is isn't good.

With a cocky smile, Tyler taps her lightly on the arm. "Not happy to see me?"

"Considering the last time we were together you shoved your tongue down my throat after I told you I wasn't interested, I'd say the answer to that question is hell no."

There's venom gushing from my best friends mouth and I'm so engrossed in her heated exchange with Tyler that I don't see the other guy approaching me until he bumps my shoulder with his own.

"I'm Mason," he claims. "Who might you be?"

Damon steps partially in front of me. "She's not interested." His voice is low and there's an unspoken warning held within it that has my eyes rolling.

Mason mimics my action. "Why don't you back off and let the lady speak for herself."

Damon doesn't budge. He also doesn't say a single word.

Mason inches forward, his eyes narrowing as he raises his voice, "I said why don't you back…"

"No need to repeat yourself," Damon interrupts. "I ignored you just fine the first time." His voice is level this time, with just a hint of cocky.

Mason doesn't seem to like it. He takes another step forward and pushes his face into Damon's. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Damon still doesn't move. His hands are at his side instead of pushing Mason away, but they're tense when he warns, "You don't want to do this with me. Trust me."

"Oh," Mason sneers, fury glaring from his blue eyes as he pushes Damon's chest. "I think I do."

Damon stumbles backwards into me, just a single step. Turning around, he makes sure I'm okay and when he sees that I am, his eyes relax. But only for a split second. Just before he turns back around, I see them harden and his jaw lock in place. Releasing a sigh, Damon tilts his head back in annoyance and it's the last thing I see before he cracks his fist against Mason's jaw. Mason wobbles a bit on his feet, his eyes rolling slightly beneath his lids before he shakes it off. When he takes a misaimed swing at Damon, he's not given another attempt. Damon punches him right in the chest, sending him to the floor.

My hands lift to cover my mouth in shock when Tyler turns to face us, his eyes wide and full of rage. "What the hell did you do to my cousin?"

"I warned him," Damon claims as Tyler stomps over to Mason, who is clutching his chest in the fetal position. "You might want to get him to a hospital. I think I felt a rib fracture."

The nonchalance in Damon's delivery has me slightly on edge. There's a guy on the floor who might need to go to the hospital because of something he did and Damon seems completely unphased by it. That's not normal. Then again, to him, it might be.

But although I'm rattled by Damon's ease after he just leveled another human being – a muscular one at that - Tyler isn't frightened. He stands and takes a step to charge Damon when Damon lifts his pointer finger and wiggles it back and forth.

"Before you do that," he says, "I'd reconsider. Just look at your buddy."

"Fuck you," Tyler snarls before he lunges.

One well-placed uppercut to the chin is all it takes for Damon to send Tyler settling next to his cousin on the floor. Seriously, just one. I'm not even certain Damon blinked. Caroline's eyes are wide as she glances between the two bodies on the ground and Damon and I'm just trying to keep a decent supply of oxygen flowing in and out of my lungs.

Damon, on the other hand, is cool as a cucumber. With a quick pull of his hand through his hair, he suggests, "We should probably go."

I don't speak a word as he tosses five twenties onto the bar for our tab and the three of us head out of the club and into a cab. As Caroline gushes on about the fight – or more appropriately, the single sided beat down – I still don't say a thing. And frankly, I'm not sure if it's due to the shock of what just happened or my anger towards Damon over how he handled himself.

When we drop off Caroline at her apartment, we sit in silence. The minutes tick by and I'm aware of Damon's eyes on me as he attempts to gauge my emotions, but I don't offer him a response. Finally, the taxi arrives at our building and I toss open my door, leaving Damon to pay our fare. I don't slow my speed as I defer the elevator ride for the more grueling flights of stairs. The energy spent walking up them will be less energy I have to aim at him when we're both alone in our apartment.

Unfortunately, I'm still buzzing with it when I open the door, toss my clutch on the side table and storm across the apartment. It's pulsing in my temples when Damon shuts the door and leans against it.

Thankfully, I manage to keep it controlled as I mutter, "Well that was fun. Celebrating was a great idea."

"Oh no you don't," he says, shaking his head and walking towards the fridge. "Don't even think about laying on a guilt trip about this." He disappears behind the stainless steel door and when I open my mouth to reply, he claims, "I can see your lecture coming a mile away."

"Well maybe you need to be lectured."

He closes the fridge, a water bottle in hand, as he leans his elbows against the kitchen island. "Because I defended you?"

"Because you hit them," I correct. "Just up and hit them without thinking twice. Why?"

He shrugs, unscrewing the cap to take a sip of water from the bottle. "It's always been effective in the past."

"You're not living in the past anymore, Damon," I shout, gaining so much from that tiny release of my emotions. All of the sexual tension he's bottled inside of me over the past weeks and all of the disappointment I hold towards him right this second eases slightly with it.

He'd been the one who wanted a fresh start. He'd been the one who ran away and stumbled upon my door, eager to live a new life and leave the old one behind. Now he hasn't just stolen a gun, but he's also beaten the living daylights out of someone – scratch that _two_ someones. All in the span of three days. So much for a learning curve; a downward curve is more like it.

It's unfathomable that he doesn't see that he's wasting the opportunity he's been given.

Lowering my voice, I lift my hand in the air and reason, "You seriously hurt them and for what? To prove a point?"

"No," he refutes, taking another long pull from the water bottle. "Because they had it coming."

I don't understand how he can rationalize what he did so easily. From his relaxed stance, you'd never guess he'd just punched two men and sent one to the hospital. But he had and with no lingering effects whatsoever. That's not normal.

"You should have been the bigger man."

"I was," he states smugly. "I warned them."

"Do you want a medal?" I deadpan.

"What did you want me to do, Elena?" he asks softly, rationally. "Stand there and let the guys hit me?"

"No. I expected you to turn around so we could walk away."

Because hitting someone isn't always the answer. No matter what he was raised to believe, there's always a second choice, even if it's the more difficult one to make sometimes. Damon may have taken a hit to his pride in choosing it, but at least he would have been following through on the better life path he's claimed he's wanted.

To my utter shock, Damon laughs as though my dissatisfaction is completely unjustified. I glare at him the entire time and when he's finished, he lifts his brows to say confidently, "You know, most women would thank me for what I did."

"Well I'm not most women," I hiss, defiantly crossing my arms over my chest. "And if you expect me to commend your actions tonight, you're in for a hell of a disappointment."

"I defended you," he rationalizes again.

"You stepped in when you didn't need to," I clarify before I point my index finger at him. "And you cock-blocked me, yet again."

Damon's face contorts in disbelief as his eyes crystalize with ice. "You can't seriously tell me you wanted to sleep with that guy?"

"Of course not," I scoff. "But that's beside the point. The second he showed any interest in me, you threw on the jealousy and became the tough guy." I shake my head as the rage surges yet again. "I don't need you to deflect men for me. Let me make my own choices."

"Because you make such good ones," he mutters.

I widen my eyes and glare at him. "That's not fair. I don't judge whoever you're out there sleeping around with and I wouldn't if I ever met them."

At that, his fingers dive in to grab chunks of his onyx hair and he pulls. His face is red, his chest huffing and puffing before he tosses his head back to yell in frustration, "I'm not fucking sleeping with anyone else."

Considering the various layers to this argument, I shouldn't let that one statement suck all of the wind from my sales. But it does. It pulls the oxygen from my lungs and makes me want to grab my chest – the portion directly over my heart, because it just performed a hell of a pump.

Damon's eyes are closed and for that I'm thankful. I'm sure the relief is written all over my face – as well as a few other emotions I've tried my damndest to keep from showing. And despite finally gaining a rise in his voice, mine holds none when I ask in disbelief, "You're not?"

"No." He slides his hands from his hair and roughly over his face. His skin drags down with the motion before he tosses his hand out to form a line. "And god knows I've tried. Before you I had no problem screwing my way through New York."

Remember all of the emotions that were just exposed in my expression? Yeah, they're gone.

"Well that's commendable."

His eyes are mere slits. "I'm not ashamed of who I sleep with, Elena."

The look on his face should frighten me, but it doesn't. Even after everything I know about his past and the events I witnessed tonight. "Maybe you should be."

To my utter shock, Damon's expression softens as his eyes brighten in amusement. I can't keep a solid read on him when he's boomeranging back and forth like this.

He takes eight steps so he's standing directly in front of me and when my back presses against the wall, his hands come to rest on either side of my face, caging me in. There's affection lighting his features for the first time when he says, "See, it's _that_ right there. It doesn't matter who I'm with. It doesn't matter how stunning they are or how much they turn me on because I hear that bite of yours in my head and I see your face instead of theirs and my dick just goes limp. I can't fuck anyone else anymore."

I swallow the lump of emotions in the back of my throat because if I'm not hallucinating, I think he just admitted _I'm_ the reason he's no longer sampling from NYC's endless buffet of sexual partners.

Damon cocks his head to the side, the slight twist of his smile slips into a frown as his eyes work over my face. "You're already all I ever fucking see and now you've got me feeling like a bastard because I just clocked two idiots and you hate me for it." He's fighting to say something as his chest rises and falls, his eyes struggling to portray what his mouth cant. After a long pause, he finally admits, "I don't feel bad for the things I do. At least I never have before."

I want to reach out to him and pacify his past with the brush of my fingertips, but I relent. With him crowding my space and admitting what I've been waiting so long to hear, my heartbeat pounds out a relentless rhythm in my chest. I hang on his every word.

"They deserved it," he stresses, his brows dipped in regret. His words and actions are clashing, revealing how conflicted he truly is. It's only further showcased when his right hand leaves the wall to touch my cheek before he second guesses the action. And when it settles back against the paint, Damon bows his head so it rests right in front of my chest. Then he whispers, "They deserved it, Elena." It's like he's begging me to agree with him.

I can't, but there's defeat in the set of Damon's shoulders and his body is shaking. It's a side of him I've never seen before, one that's not confident and assured. It's one that's almost vulnerable. I feel like I'm riding a roller coaster and I've just started the plunge. My stomach is lodged in my throat.

"I don't hate you, Damon," I coax softly, lifting my hand to touch his shoulder. Its muscles are hard and defined beneath my tiny fingers.

"You know what they didn't deserve?" he questions before lifting his head. His eyes are severe, the edges blazing with a predatory lust. "To stand within ten feet of you." His breath hits my lips, hot and inviting. "No prick does."

He shakes his head as soon as the line falls from his mouth, almost as if he's disappointed it's out in the open. And after he sighs something long and exhausting, he asks, "What are you doing to me?"

There's trepidation in his voice. It's laced with frustration and uncertainty as his shaky fingers lift to ghost my cheek. The action is so gentle that it makes the night seem like a dream. It's impossible that the very hand that is so delicately feathering my cheek was used so viciously against two others this evening.

I'm uncovering that there are many sides to Damon, one in particular strangling the others. And while I detest the one I saw tonight, the others have me wrapped around his perfectly calloused finger. Yeah, he may be reckless and flawed, but he's also thoughtful, and humorous, and charming, and intriguing, and passionate. He's a complex kaleidoscope and it has me just as confused as he is.

So I whisper, "The same thing you're doing to me."

He grimaces at my words, physical pain streaking over his expression. "Don't say that. It's already hard enough to keep my hands off of you."

"Well your hand is already on me," I point out before I push, "and I'm saying it."

He may have the power to break people, but he also has the power to fix every piece currently broken inside of me. Maybe I have that same power.

His fingers skim the curve of my neck to wrap about the back as he releases a long gust of air. I want to taste the essence of it on my lips with my tongue. "I don't do the relationship bit, Elena. I don't have it in me. Not anymore." His eyes are so hopeless that I want to cry for him. "So if that's what you want from me, it can't happen. I'll fuck it up, same way I always do, and you'll want me gone."

I can hear the words he doesn't speak. _I'll be on my own again._

He's afraid of being alone. So am I, but it's different for me. I have Caroline, always, and to a lesser degree I have Bonnie and Jeremy and - even if it really came down to it - my mom. He has no one. I'm it.

_I'm all Damon has._

With Katherine's warning about Damon's lack of a heart spiraling together in my head along with his actions and spoken words, I know he believes what he's saying. After everything he's been through in life, I don't blame him. Maybe he can't feel for me what I do for him, not in the emotional sense, but he feels _something_. And now that I know he's in the same physical pain I am, I need this now. I'm not thinking clearly, the pulse between my legs drowning out every sensible thought in my head, as lust supersedes everything.

So I declare, "I don't need a relationship." What I need is his lips on mine, the contact so fierce that it steals the breath from between my lips. Otherwise, the ache will crumple me to my knees.

His fingertips dip into my skin as he clenches his fist around the backside of my neck. It's not painful; it's desperate when he breathes, "I'm not buying it." From the pressure he's applying to my neck and the longing simmering in his vast pools of blue, it's painstakingly obvious he wants to.

I don't pull back or say he's correct. Instead, I wait with my eyes locked on his. My own conflict between logic and desire reflect back at me, but his resistance crumbles with each breath he takes. I watch it happen, brick by brick, until finally, the hole is big enough for me to push my way through.

Before I have a chance to second guess the words, I utter the stupidest lie that has ever left my mouth. "I can handle it."

It's the last line spoken before his lips crash against mine.

* * *

><p><strong>*shouts <strong>_**'This chapter was already over 7,500 words!'**_** before I run away from the rocks y'all are about to throw at me***

_**Please Read & Review. :)**_

_**I'm on Twitter and Tumblr: morvamp**_


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